


Black, in the Smothering Dark

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Series: Hush of War (Black Empire) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, Gen, Hogwarts Era, Pre-Slash, Sirius as Harry's father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2007-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 101,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is rescued from the Dursleys and spends the summer with his god…father? This is the prequel to The Hush of War. Beta'd by giesha_kitten/laureen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black House

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea to write this story before OotP came out and I started it before HBP came out. Therefore, I’ve tried to incorporate OotP in a believable manner, and where HBP was completely uncomplimentary, I’ve included it in an entirely different manner—therefore, I have tweaked several canon facts. In my story, Lily Evans was a Ravenclaw, as was Narcissa Black. Also, Narcissa and Lucius were in the same year as the Marauders and Lily. The title of this story is adapted-borrowed-inspired by the poem ‘Incantation’ by Elinor Morton Wylie. I do have to say, regarding the pictures: I enjoy finding them and making them. They were all free for non-business use, but if anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.
> 
> There are some dark, morally questionable, and reprehensible themes in this work. While I have tried to write the story in a way that allows the reader to suspend their disbelief, it should not be taken to mean that I endorse the depicted attitudes. You'll know them when you get to them. Some of these themes may be triggering. 
> 
> In this part of the series in particular, Sirius expresses some racist attitudes. In the next part (Hush of War), there are different themes, warned for there. I don't think there is anything triggering in this part, but I'm willing to amend if there seems to be disagreement.
> 
> FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR for snippets, what I'm working on next, and to ask me anything :) [lol-zeitgeistic on Tumblr](http://lol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 04/24/11.

  


Sixth year had been uneventful, but that didn’t mean too much to Harry Potter at the moment. Sitting in the backseat of his uncle’s newest car, he stared mournfully out of the window and watched the trees pass by in rapid succession. No one had spoken to him yet—he’d only received a glare and a pointed look when he took too long to load his trunk in the boot of the car at King’s Cross station—and he wasn’t too bothered by it.

He’d kept his head down all year, mourning for the godfather he hardly knew, and surprisingly, keeping his mind occupied with his studies. He’d read books—just to pass the time—on everything from alchemy to vampires, but he still refused to read Hogwarts, A History. By now, it was on principle.

If there was anything to be grateful for at all, it seemed that Dudley was down in weight at least a stone, and hopefully the Dursleys would resume a normal diet. To be honest, Harry didn’t understand why Aunt Petunia put the whole family on a diet to begin with if it wasn’t _normal_ to diet in the first place. With the Dursleys, there was always an exception to the rule.

The trip passed in silence, with Dudley squirming next to him and his uncle shooting him dark looks in the rear-view mirror, but no words were spoken, and Harry was glad because it had been several weeks since he’d said much at all. Ron and Hermione had learned to read his face and gestures, and he was glad for it. He didn’t have a specific reason that he didn’t talk much anymore—he just didn’t. He didn’t see a need for too many words anymore, because he didn’t have anything left to say.

It had been a year, but his godfather’s death was still hard for him.

When they arrived at Privet Drive, Harry jumped out first and grabbed his trunk from the boot of the car, dragging it up the walkway to the front door as he waited for Uncle Vernon to stroll up several moments later. He seemed to purposely dawdle since Harry was hefting a trunk. He went straight to his room, not waiting to give them any time to pack his trunk away in the cupboard, and flopped down on the bed. In a while, he would have to start dinner, and he just wanted a few moments’ peace to himself before he had to deal with that.

It was going to be a long, lonely summer. Harry took a deep breath as he prepared himself for it.

ɤɣɤ

That night, Harry attempted to cook a rather complex roast with new potatoes, carrots and onions because Aunt Petunia had been kind enough to make out an itinerary of sorts for the summer’s meals. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all planned down to the type of pudding to be served for the entire summer—and whether or not Harry actually knew how to cook a roast in advance was not discussed. Obviously, Dudley was off his diet.

“Roast is terrible,” Dudley complained, even as he helped himself to a second serving. Harry silently agreed, and for the first time in quite some time, was not terribly dismayed to remember that he was not allowed seconds. “Bloody awful,” Dudley emphasized.

“Mind your tongue, Dudders,” Petunia hissed around a delicate bite of potatoes. Dudley didn’t seem to have heard her at all, and instead loaded his mouth with more meat, chewing excessively in some sort of backwards vengeance. It did not occur to him that Harry was not at all insulted to be told that roast was not one of his specialties.

“Dudley’s right,” Vernon said, shooting a glare at Harry for good measure. “Never had a roast quite so dry.”

Harry remained pointedly disinterested in the conversation and instead focused on chewing. Perhaps if Petunia felt it necessary to allow him access to her cookbook, he would have had some sort of direction, but even he couldn’t disagree with the fact that, for once, the Dursleys had a decent enough reason to complain about him.

He didn’t care. If they wanted a decent meal, they should have cooked it themselves.

 _If you don’t like it_ , he thought angrily, _you ought to get off your lazy arse and do it yourself._ He had used a similar excuse a year ago and that had led to the battle at the Department of Mysteries, Yet, he _had_ done it himself, and it still went pear-shaped. Nowadays, he liked to push the blame over to Professor Dumbledore, though, because maybe if Dumbledore hadn’t ignored him all year, it wouldn’t have come to what it had. But maybe not, and whenever Harry got that far in his reasoning, he usually resorted to studying instead. It took his mind off things.

Sometimes, Harry wrote letters to Sirius and told him about all the things he wanted to do and learn about wizarding culture and how things would have been if they hadn’t gone the way they did. It would have been brilliant. These letters he hid under a fake bottom charmed into his trunk—by an enterprising seventh year Ravenclaw student last autumn—because he had no where to send them when it came down to it.

Once, when he’d used his personal weekly allowance for grieving and had no homework left to complete or interesting books to read or anything at all to do actually, he’d tried sending one of the letters off with Hedwig. She didn’t return for three days after that, and when she did, she looked fairly worn and exhausted, and the letter, still clutched in her beak, had confirmed his suspicions that she’d been terribly confused and spent a rather extended time searching for a dead man.

Hedwig had never before failed to deliver a letter, and Harry wondered if it bothered her to fail. He wondered why she’d attempted it in the first place; owls seemed to sense when a letter would be undeliverable. He felt awful about putting her through it, and realised then that sending the letter had at least had some sort of positive effect after all because he didn’t grieve anymore that week. Still, Hedwig remained indignant at her failure, while still managing to give Harry an apologetic hoot for his loss. He gave her an owl treat and a scratch for her efforts.

When he’d eaten as much as he could handle, he excused himself from the table, cleaned off his plate, and headed upstairs for his bedroom. His trunk was sitting at the end of his bed and Hedwig’s cage was open near the window, but she was out hunting for the night. He flopped back on the bed and pulled out one of his books that he’d charmed to look like completely reasonable and not out-of-the-ordinary muggle works before leaving Hogwarts for the summer.

Now, instead of a trunk-full of textbooks, reference books and wizarding novels, Harry had a collection of thirty-seven copies of _David Copperfield_ —hardcover, first editions. He’d considered charming them into Terry Pratchett books, but that was no good when the Dursleys would’ve been just as upset over the content of those as they would about his textbooks.

Chapter seven, which was probably the most interesting—and at the same time confusing chapter—of his new favourite book, _Death in the Wizarding World: Where do we go when we die?_ said that only wizards and witches could possibly turn into ghosts when they died, though some muggles were pretty certain they’d seen some ghosts occasionally. That didn’t help him at all.

What Harry wanted to know, and what the book was obstinately refusing to explain, was why certain people became ghosts and others simply disappeared, since the book swore up and down that ‘unfinished business’ was utter rubbish. _Death in the Wizarding World_ was one of Harry’s charmed books that he’d been reading whenever he found a free moment for several weeks now—and was still no closer to understanding hardly any of it. What he really wanted to know was where his parents and Sirius were.

Sometime later that evening, when Harry was on chapter ten of his book and nowhere closer to understanding what happened to dead wizards, there was a sharp knock on his bedroom door, and he looked up as it opened. Aunt Petunia walked in looking sour, and glared at him. Probably about the roast, still. Her eyes flickered across the cover of his book, and he knew that she wanted to say something—knew she wasn’t stupid enough to think that was actually what he was reading, but said nothing about it.

“We’re taking Dudley out to buy new furniture for his room and some gifts tomorrow to celebrate his marks. You’re to clean out the attic to make room for his old furniture. I want it done by the time we get home; is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Harry said, and returned to _David Copperfield_. Petunia scowled, and walked back out, closing the door with a snick behind her.

The next morning, Harry woke up at six, made a breakfast that was considerably better than dinner the night before—because at least he was accustomed to cooking eggs and bacon—and watched if not gleefully then at least contentedly as the Dursleys left for an entire day. An entire day. It might not have been the most perfect circumstances, but cleaning had become something of a soothing activity for Harry, and he could deal with the attic so long as he didn’t have to deal with the Dursleys as well.

The attic was unsurprisingly hot when he went up, and he pulled his old t-shirt off and tossed it to the side while he worked. There was no point in getting hotter than was necessary. He decided to start with the far wall and work his way back to the doorway, bagging, sweeping and dusting as he went, and was sweating within minutes.

Two hours later, Harry was positively soaking in sweat and grime and dust from the attic stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He swiped his hair back from his forehead with the back of his hand as he sat down in front of an old chest, and only succeeding in making it worse as his hands were equally sweaty and grimy.

He needed a break, but he was more than halfway done and he might as well go ahead and finish the job. There were two sacks full of trash and a couple pieces of broken furniture at the kerb already. The attic looked considerably better, but Harry’s skin looked considerably worse. He grimaced at the feeling of dust caked onto his skin.

With an exaggerated sigh, Harry flipped open the trunk and dragged his trash bag closer. He stared dubiously into the chest—Aunt Petunia had left additional notes on the kitchen table explaining that she wanted any and all papers sorted as well. This was going to take a while. It was full of what looked to be mementos from Petunia’s childhood years. It was very hard to imagine that bitter woman as having ever been a child. Nothing for it, Harry reached in.

A small plush white tiger—trashed. An old green glass soda bottle from a company called ‘Petunia’s Pop’—trashed. A small replica of the Statue of Liberty—trashed. A tied-up bunch of old love letters from a boy named Sam—trashed, with disgust. A gossip magazine with Henry Winkler on the cover—saved, but only because Harry was out of things to read once he finished _Death in the Wizarding World._

“Go sit on it, Petunia,” he muttered, and blindly reached in one more time. He was nearing the bottom of the trunk and the rest seemed to be full of only old papers and books. A yearbook—more specifically, a yearbook from the 1965-1966 school year at St. John’s Academy in New York City. Harry furrowed his brows in confusion, and glanced over at the pile of things to be thrown away.

The tiger had been sewn in Indonesia, but Petunia’s Pop Company was based out of Philadelphia and the little statue was obviously from New York. Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Harry opened the cover of the yearbook, scanning over all of the childishly scrawled ‘have a good summer, Petunia’s and little flowers drawn in pink ink. He flipped passed the introductory pages and stopped at Ms. Goodwin’s Kindergarten class. There, between George Edgerton and Melissa Founts was a black and white picture of a tiny little girl with long, possibly un-brushed hair, and a small, upturned nose: Lily Evans, not more than five years old.

Harry stared down at the muggle photograph, breathing suddenly a lot harder to do than it had been several minutes before. His mother went to primary school in muggle New York City. Hastily, because he couldn’t stand looking at a picture of the mother he couldn’t remember, he flipped the pages again. Ms. Jenkins’ first grade class was several pages over and he found himself staring at another familiar face. Petunia Evans, pictured between Kevin Dorsey and Katie Gordon.

“What the bloody fuck,” Harry whispered, and turned back to the page with his mother on it, but the longer he looked at the picture of his mother, the more he realised that he all those people who’d always said he looked just like his father, obviously hadn’t known his mother when she was young. He looked just like her—the hair could’ve come from her even. He certainly hoped she’d just not brushed it in a fit of childhood rebellion, and that it hadn’t always looked that terrible.

There weren’t many pictures of Harry from when he was that age—though sometimes, he was accidentally caught in the background of some other picture of the Dursleys—but he could still remember what he looked like, and save for the dark hair and glasses, he really didn’t look a thing like James Potter.

It was a little bit disconcerting to realise he was nothing but a male, black-haired version of his mother right down to his ears—though his nose didn’t look anything like James’ _or_ Lily’s and he thought that maybe he’d inherited it from a grandparent.

There was the sound of a car door shutting outside the house, and Harry hurriedly tossed everything back in the chest and shut it just as the front door opened. Downstairs, Dudley asked when dinner would be ready. Harry glanced at his watch, not realizing that he’d been in the attic all day. He’d been so absorbed in the yearbook that he’d completely forgotten about finishing his chor—or being too hot, or anything else at all, really.

“Boy!”

Harry rushed out the attic and down the stairs to the landing at the top of the second floor, where his uncle was waiting for him.

“There you are. Finished cleaning out the attic, have you?”

Harry winced. “Nearly, Uncle Vernon. There’s just a bit left.”

Vernon growled and looked very much like he wanted to give him quite the tongue lashing for not finishing, but he stopped himself with a quelling look from Petunia who was just mounting the top stairs with a bag of shopping.

“Very well,” Uncle Vernon said instead. “You’re to cook dinner and then finish while we’re eating. Then you’re to move Dudley’s old things up to the attic.”

Harry nodded and hurried downstairs to start dinner. Aunt Petunia wanted spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread that night, and he had never been very good about cooking pasta. It always came out too hard or too mushy, so with a resigned sigh, Harry gathered the ingredients and put a pot of water on to boil.

Several minutes later, when the water had finally reached boiling point—and Harry had realised exactly how much magic would have helped if only he was old enough to use it—he dumped the pasta in and ran back upstairs to finish cleaning while it cooked. There wasn’t much left to do, and he figured if he hurried, he could get it done in ten or fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t nearly as hot in the attic at night as it had been during the day, but Harry still felt a sheen of sweat form on his forehead as he dragged the rubbish bags out to the kerb and swept up the floor. It hadn’t taken him more than ten minutes to do it all, and as he was turning to go back downstairs, his aunt’s trunk caught his eye.

No—no, he would come back later and look through everything else after he’d finished cooking dinner. If he burnt anything, there would surely be hell to pay and he would have the rest of the night to look through it after he finished everything else. This was not the time. He lingered for only a second or two longer before forcing himself to go back downstairs and finish cooking.

The sauce was simmering on the cooker and the pasta looked ready enough, so Harry turned the gas off and stuck a pan of garlic bread in the oven. Five minutes. Five minutes until the bread finished baking and he could go back up to the attic. He waited impatiently and served everything up onto three plates when the timer went off.

The Dursleys were already at the table when he brought the plates and extra bowls of spaghetti in. Dudley sneered at him and Uncle Vernon gave ignoring Harry a spirited try, but in the end, was forced to acknowledge his presence when he realised that he wanted some grated parmesan cheese for his pasta.

“Get the parmesan, boy,” he said. Harry did so, and when it was apparent that no one else needed anything, he dismissed himself.

Back in the attic, it was an almost comfortable temperature. Harry resolutely ignored the old chest in favour of a stack of files that needed sorting in the corner. They were his last obstacle left before he could move Dudley’s old things in and sort through the trunk.

Dudley’s wardrobe, which the git had thoughtfully left to Harry for cleaning out, was the heaviest and hardest to move, but the both the wardrobe and the bed required disassembling before he was able to move them, which was just an annoyance. All in all, it took him two hours to get everything up to the attic and another two to assemble all of the new furniture.

He had assumed that movers would be bringing it all in and assembling it the next day, but had obviously forgotten that poor Dudders couldn’t spend a night on the couch. By the time he was finished, it was ten o’clock and the Dursleys were winding down for the evening and heading to bed.

He would just have to wait until they were asleep.

He kept the light off and made no noise while he waited—hoping that they would fall asleep soon so that he could sneak back up to the attic. It took an hour and a half for all the noise coming from Dudley’s room to stop and once it had, Harry wasted no time.

The door leading to the attic seemed a lot further away at night when he was trying to sneak up to it. Every footstep sounded like an explosion and every breath sounded like a scream. If he got caught out of his room at night, there would be no end to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s wrath. They’d probably stop feeding him for a week—which wouldn’t be so different since he was only getting two meals a day now, come to think of it.

Finally, he made it to the attic door at the end of the hall and slowly turned the knob, thankful that he’d been made to oil all the doors in the house the summer prior. It didn’t creak, so he stepped through and quickly shut the door behind him.

The attic was directly above his aunt and uncle’s bedroom, so now he would have to be especially careful not to make any noise whatsoever. He could do that. He had plenty of experience sneaking around, and though he hadn’t realised it, all his thoughts had been so focused on the chest all day that he hadn’t thought about Sirius once.

Distraction always worked like that.

It seemed like some sort of detective movie or horror story when he finally ascended the last step into the attic because the trunk—oddly enough—was positioned in the one spot in the entire attic that was hit by moonlight. It was like a beacon calling him and focusing all of his attention on that one spot.

He would’ve laughed if he could’ve afforded to make noise.

Harry sat down in front of the trunk and opened it carefully. The yearbook was on top, but he’d already seen that, and he wanted to know what other secrets his aunt had.

He just hadn’t realised that those secrets were quite so intriguing.

The first stack of papers he pulled out were a bundled set of newspaper clippings from a New York underground paper that Harry thought might have been wizarding in origin, but looked like any other muggle newspaper. It was only the content that was questionable.

New England Minister Elect, Jim Evans, announces engagement of son

[NYC] -- Minister Elect, Jim Evans, and his wife, Janet, announce the engagement of their son, Frank Evans, to Laurel Dormant, recent graduate of the New England Academy of Magic.  
Laurel Dormant is the only daughter of Head of Aurors George Dormant and his wife, Leslie. Mr. Dormant, who has been with the New York Ministry for twenty-nine years, has publicly acknowledged the intended union and was reported saying that he ‘could not be happier for Laurel’.  
With the upcoming elections just on the horizon, this announcement is sure to rouse a time of celebration for the favoured Jim Evans. The wedding is scheduled for mid-April and the guest list is reported to number in the five-hundreds.

Frank Evans Announces Plans to Run for Minister

[NYC] – Frank Evans, son of the highly celebrated former Minister, Jim Evans, who retired just last year, has announced his intentions of running for the Minister’s seat…

New England Minister of Magic resigns

[NYC] – After twelve years serving the New England Ministry, beloved Frank Evans announced Friday that he will be resigning on the first of the month. Minister Evans took office after the retirement of his father, Jim Evans, and continued several important and wide-reaching philanthropic and wizardiarian projects throughout New England that the former Minister implemented.  
Vice-Minister, Margaret Pratcher, will serve as de facto Minister until the next elections in May.  
Minister Evans said in a press-release Friday afternoon that he plans to move his family to England directly after the end of his term.

Former Minister and wife assassinated

[Manch] – Former New England Minister of Magic, Frank Evans was assassinated along with his wife Laurel in their Manchester, England home last evening. They are survived by their two daughters, Petunia, 19, and Lily, 18.  
Mr. Evans, who served the New England Ministry for twelve years, relocated to England after resigning his final term as Minister in March of 1968.

Harry dropped the article in shock and stumbled backwards, knocking over a spare coat stand in the process. His mother was from America and not a muggle-born at all. Her blood made no difference to him, but this meant that his family had a whole history he was unaware of. He stared at the paper, fingers trembling and eyes wide.

Behind him, he heard the sudden rush of feet pounding up the stairs and turned just as the attic door burst open and his aunt and uncle came through.

“What are you doing, boy?” Uncle Vernon demanded. Behind him, aunt Petunia was staring at the papers in his hands in no little amount of fear. Her eyes flickered from Vernon to Harry to the articles frantically as Harry stumbled for words.

“I...I…” he said, but it was no use. His uncle was already rounding on him. He stumbled back, dropping everything as he fell backwards over the open chest and scrambled back to the wall.

“You will not be running around this house at all hours of the night—getting into trouble and making a scene for the neighbours to hear. Your aunt and I are trying to sleep and if I have to lock you up again to keep you in place, then so be it,” Vernon growled. “I don’t care what your freaky people have to say about it.”

Harry backed up but there was no where for him to go. His uncle descended on him and snatched him up by the collar of his t-shirt. Uncle Vernon dragged him down the stairs, Harry stumbling on each step, while Petunia scurried behind him, and tossed him through the door of his bedroom.

Harry landed with an aching thump and scampered over to his bed, but Uncle Vernon was having none of it.

“Petunia, get the rope from the shed,” he said. Petunia made a disagreeable noise, and hesitated, but when Uncle Vernon growled, “Now!” she hurried off. Harry was sitting back-against-the-wall again, but at least this time his legs weren’t hanging over the edge of an upturned trunk, and as he and Uncle Vernon stared at each other, Petunia returned, rope in hand.

Harry wasn’t going down without a fight. He looked for an opening, and seeing none, decided his best chance of escape was to go right through, so he rushed his uncle and was surprised by a smack to his jaw. Harry fell back, sprawled across the floor and stared up at his uncle.

Of all the times to not have his wand with him. Where was it, anyway? He thought he’d put it under the floorboard when he got home from Hogwarts but he couldn’t say for certain at the time. He desperately tried to summon it from wherever it was, but he’d never tried wandless magic before and he wasn’t exactly surprised when it didn’t show up.

Uncle Vernon gave him a nasty look. “Now you just be quiet and go to sleep,” he said. “Quit your nonsense or I’ll put you out on the street.” And with that, he backed out of the room. The last thing Harry saw before the door slammed shut was his aunt’s anxious face, and he knew that the newspaper article would be long gone before he ever got a chance to see it again. The sound of Uncle Vernon threading the rope through the old locks on his door filtered through; Harry sighed, and tried his best to fall asleep.

ɤɣɤ

When Harry woke up again, he was still locked in his room. He tried the door, but, as expected, it didn’t budge. It was still dark and he had no idea where his glasses were. What had woken him up?

It didn’t matter though; his eyes had begun to adjust after a few minutes and now he could make out his surroundings. There was a sore spot on his jaw from being smacked.

Hedwig was still gone. Harry sighed and tried to relax. If he only put his mind to it, he could think of a way out of this. He knew he could. It wasn’t worth risking his wand, yet. He was still underaged.

A few minutes later, there was the sound of wings flapping, and Harry squinted one eye open to see Hedwig returning from her hunt. When she noticed him, she gave a hoot and fluttered over to him, landing squarely on his thigh. Her talons dug through his pyjamas as if he weren’t even wearing them. He winced and gently moved her to his arm instead.

“Quiet, girl,” he whispered. “Don’t wake anyone up.” She gave him a withering glare, as if to say, ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

“We’re stuck here for a while longer, I suppose,” he added. Hopping off of his arm, Hedwig waddled over to his desk and retrieved a quill and a scrap of parchment.

“Good idea,” he said. A note to Ron would surely get him out of here. Harry scratched out a note; Hedwig snatched it away when he was done, hopped over to the window and was gone. She would know where to go. She always did.

With one last withering glare at the locked door, Harry closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. _You would think they’d at least feed me,_ he thought.

Two more days passed in this manner.

ɤɣɤ

The next time Harry woke up, it was to the sound of scratching at his bedroom door. There was a muffled curse and then the sound of someone spelling the door open. Harry, still in bed, opened his blurry eyes and stared hard at the dark shape of the door, trying to focus without his glasses.

There could very well be Death Eaters entering his room, but Harry didn’t care at this point. He was bloody hungry. So long as they took him away from Privet Drive, he would be quite all right with it. But then, Harry reminded himself that it was still possible he’d gone delirious in the past days. His wand was hidden beneath the floorboards under his bed; there was no way he’d get to it in time.

A dark, cloaked figured stepped in and looked around, and when their eyes landed on Harry, he could tell that they had widened.

“Harry!” was whispered as the figured approached. The voice sounded familiar—a voice he’d heard before and associated with something good. But it couldn’t be who it sounded like. That person was dead.

A wand was removed from the figure’s sleeve, and Harry winced when it was pointed at his face. He heard whispered words and then his glasses were floating onto his face.

His rescuer threw his hood back as he shut the door behind him.

“Sirius,” Harry said, shocked. He sat up quickly. His godfather nodded and gave him a quirky smile. Harry was definitely getting delirious—or maybe he was already there. Sirius was dead, and Harry was mad.

Of all the things that ran through his head at that moment—questions about how Sirius was alive, how he was there, where he’d been, how long Harry had been batty, anything like that at all—Harry chose, instead, to ask, “Where’d you get a wand?”

“France,” Sirius said with a shrug. Harry nodded dumbly, and his vision began to fade—he was starting to get extremely dehydrated—but Sirius gave him a light slap on his cheek and he jerked awake. “Stay with me, kiddo,” Sirius said.

Harry supposed that if he was dead—or batty—and Heaven was, in fact, in France, then it wouldn’t matter if he fell asleep or not. But on the other hand, Harry had heard a lot of things about France, and never having been there to debunk those things, France very well could have been Hell. And still, on another hand, which was far too many hands, Harry didn’t think he was hungry enough to die. He wished he’d finished reading Death in the Wizarding World because he was certain he hadn’t read anything about France in there.

Harry looked down and noted that he did, in fact, have four hands and twenty fingers. He also had four feet and twenty toes. He was either delirious or he really was about to faint.

“Up you get then, kiddo,” Sirius said with an amazing amount of restraint. Harry was hauled to his feet and gingerly led over to the window. “Where’s all your stuff then? Is this it? In the trunk?”

“Wand’s under the floorboard,” Harry mumbled and pointed at the loose floorboard under the bed. Sirius bent down and squirmed under the bed, scooting back out with a handful of things, which did, in fact, include his wand.

“Come along then, we’ll be taking a portkey. Sit on your trunk and hold out your hand.”

“Where’re we going?” Harry asked as he sat on the trunk. Sirius gathered up Hedwig’s cage, which Harry noticed was still empty, and pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket.

“Grimmauld Place,” he answered, and they disappeared.

ɤɣɤ

“It’s keyed to me—takes you anywhere you say,” Sirius was saying when they landed in the parlour of Grimmauld Place, and any doubts that Harry still harboured that this man might not have been his godfather vanished because Grimmauld Place was still under a _Fidelius_ , so Death Eaters would not have been able to portkey in.

But that still didn’t mean he wasn’t mental. Or dead.

“Had it since I was a kid. Found it in my old room two years ago and kept it. You never know when you’ll need an emergency—if illegal—portkey,” Sirius continued.

“I want one,” Harry said petulantly, still suffering from the delirium. The portkey had not helped at all. He was feeling a bit more than faint now, actually.

Sirius grinned and shook his head. “Can’t have one. I’ve got an extra—Regulus’ old one,” he said a little sadly, “but it only works for the Black family.”

He left Harry in the parlour and disappeared up the stairs, reappearing several minutes later with a knapsack and a key hanging around his neck.

“C’mon, Kiddo,” Sirius said, “we’ve got to go now. I’ve just kidnapped you, and I don’t want to take any chances until I’ve convinced Dumbledore to let me keep you with me. This’ll be the first place the Order comes.”

Harry nodded, and reached out to wrap his fingers around Sirius’ forearm, closing his eyes as he activated yet another portkey and they vanished again. This time, they reappeared in front of the gates of a huge, depressing-looking manor house made entirely of a grey stone. It was just as decrepit as Grimmauld Place, if not more so, and the air was significantly cooler. They must have been quite a few miles north of London.

Behind it, Harry could see that it was perched near the edge of a cliff with lots of green grass growing all around on rolling hills. He smelled the sharp scent of salt-water and heard the sounds of waves crashing against rocks. Over the horizon, there were flocks of cawing gulls. The area was beautiful—it was only the huge house that looked out-of-place.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

Sirius gave him a sardonic little smile that looked wholly out-of-place on his tired-looking face. Seeing how woozy Harry was after the port-key trips, Sirius handed him a pack of crisps and a bottle of butterbeer from his pocket. “River House—just west of Edinburgh, on the Black River,” he answered. Then he added, “It’s another of the Black estates. The area looks rather droll to the muggles—they can’t see any of this—notice-me-not charms and what not,” he said with a wistful smile. “This is where my father grew up.”

Harry managed to give him an odd look even while he was devouring the bag of crisps. “Your mother and father both had the surname Black?” he asked. “That portrait of your mother,” Harry continued when Sirius refused to give him anything but a studiously blank look. “She’s always going on about it being the house of her fathers. I thought maybe she was just so overbearing that your father took her name when they married.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “They were second cousins,” he replied, as if it should have been more obvious to Harry.

“Right,” Harry said. Not common, but not unheard of, certainly.

“Right, well then,” Sirius said. “Let’s be off then, shall we?” and with that, he pulled the key hanging around his neck off and slipped it into the lock on the rusted old gates, murmuring a password in some Gaelic language. The gates opened with a rather clichéd creak, and they stepped through, stumbling over a few uneven places on the gravel drive before getting their bearings and trotting off up to the main house.

The closer they got to the house, the more Harry could smell the sea water, and he smiled as Sirius put his hand against the huge front doors and spoke another password. He might have just been in shock over seeing his godfather actually alive, but he figured that if he was really going mental, then he’d much rather do it here, with Sirius, than at Privet Drive.

ɤɣɤ

Inside, the house was scarily dark and their footsteps echoed across the rooms. Sirius dropped his knapsack on the floor by the door and looked around wistfully. “I haven’t been here since I was just a lad,” he said. “Looks like _no one’s_ been here since I was a lad, actually,” he grinned and Harry grinned back. It did look rather dilapidated, and the dust was beginning to make Harry’s nose itch.

Sirius sneezed.

“I don’t suppose any of the old house-elves are still alive,” he muttered to himself as he called out several random names. Apparently, Toddy, Snooty, and Stalwart were all deceased, as none of them answered Sirius’ summons. It appeared that they would be doing their own cooking and cleaning for the duration of the summer. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about that; he’d done enough cleaning for one summer already.

“It’s a shame that Dobby’s not here,” Harry said to Sirius, and jumped back when a little creature popped in front of him.

“Harry Potter called Dobby?” the elf asked. “What can Dobby do for Harry Potter, sir?”

Too stunned over Dobby actually appearing to reply, Harry looked warily over to Sirius who was quite relieved at the prospect of not actually having to clean.

“Excellent!” he said. “Looks like we might not have to clean after all.”

Harry finally regrouped enough to ask, “Dobby, why aren’t you at Hogwarts?”

He was ignored when Sirius continued.

“Dobby, is it?” Dobby nodded imperiously. “Lovely—Dobby would you know of any elves in need of employment?”

Dobby considered this for several seconds before answering. “Dobby knows not of any elves wanting employment. Dobby is not liked much. House-elves say Dobby a bad house-elf, but Dobby is happy…”

“Any wanting a binding, then?” Sirius asked, cutting Dobby off.

“Dobby knows of two elves, Mr. Black, sir. They is young elves. Mated.”

Sirius grinned. “Do you know where they are?” Dobby nodded. “Would you run along and see if they might consider binding themselves to us?” Dobby grinned and disappeared with a pop.

“I didn’t think you’d want to bind a house-elf,” Harry said. Sirius shrugged, unfazed. Neither of them were excited at the prospect of cleaning this filthy manor.

“If I don’t, then they’ll be able to tell people where we are, and surely you don’t want to clean this whole place up by yourself, do you?”

Harry couldn’t argue with logic like that so he said nothing. He wandered over to one of the big, grimy, south-facing windows. He hadn’t seen much more than the foyer and antechamber yet, but if the windows facing north were even half as nice, the view of the firth would be spectacular once everything was all cleaned up.

He was watching two butterflies hover around a rather dead-looking rose bush in the front garden when there were three pops in quick succession behind him. He turned around quickly, reaching for his wand and sighed in relief when he saw that it was only Dobby standing in front of two nervous-looking house-elves.

The female had huge floppy ears and a little round nose; she was wearing a pink tea-cozy and a pink lacy pillowcase tied with a blue ribbon. The male—whose nose was a fair bit longer—had fashioned a dark green pillowcase into a sort of toga. They were rather stylish as far as house-elves went.

“Dobby brings house-elves to Mr. Black, sir,” Dobby said as he straightened an argyle sock on his ear. “House-elves are from family in Ireland that died with no will. House-elves had no where to go—they’s been helping Dobby make beds at Hogwarts.”

Harry joined Sirius as he crouched down in front of the two elves and gave them a quick smile. They shuffled their feet nervously, but seemed to be trying to look as presentable as possible if the constant straightening of their pillowcases was anything to go by.

“What are your names, then?” Sirius asked. The male pulled himself up a bit straighter and took a deep breath.

“Fred, sir,” he said and then pointed to the female’s belly, which now that Harry looked closer was a little bit rounded. “Ginger is having little elf soon.”

Sirius smiled, and gave Harry an amused look when they introduced themselves. “Fred and Ginger, eh?” he said. “Well, I’m Sirius Black and this is my godson, Harry Potter. We’ll be moving into this house and will need help cleaning and maintaining it, not to mention help with the cooking and any repair work which may come about. Would you like to bind yourselves to us? The little elf, whenever it comes, will be welcome as well,” he added.

Harry was immediately blinded by the flashing grins of three house-elves. Dobby looked rather proud of himself and Ginger looked as if she might explode from excitement. Fred took another deep breath, tried to quail his infectious grin, and said simply, “Yes. Fred, Ginger and little elf want to be house-elves for Master Black and Little Master.”

Harry felt something tingle throughout his body and looked up at Sirius. “That’s it?” he asked dubiously. Sirius shrugged and smiled.

“I never said it was a difficult process. They only have to accept.” He turned and favoured Dobby with an indulgent smile. “Thank you very kindly for your assistance, Dobby,” he said. The two new elves gasped at the praise, but Dobby looked suitably smug.

“Dobby likes Harry Potter, sir. Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter or Harry Potter’s godfather, sir,” and with that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared, leaving Harry and Sirius with two anxious house-elves. They were looking around the entry hall and tsking to themselves—Harry had no doubt that they were mentally planning everything that would need to be done to the manor house.

“Well then,” Sirius said, turning to face Fred and Ginger again. “I think for today, if you two would just clean up the kitchen and two bedrooms that would be lovely—oh, and some dinner tonight,” he added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of galleons. He handed the gold over and explained where the nearest wizarding village was, and they disappeared with a chorus of ‘Yes, Master Blacks’, taking Sirius’ knapsack with them.

ɤɣɤ

An hour later, when Harry and Sirius were quietly enjoying the view of the firth from the north gardens, they had still not received any letters from anyone, even though owls should have been able to find River House, unplottable or not. Harry assumed that he’d yet to be missed from the Dursleys, and wondered what Professor Dumbledore would do when he found out that Harry wasn’t at Privet Drive anymore, or that Sirius Black was indeed alive.

Which brought him to something he’d been half-afraid to bring up since they arrived, and something that Sirius had not yet offered an explanation for. He wasn’t really looking forward to proof that this was all the result of some delirium.

When Ginger called them inside for dinner, Harry decided that the time was as good as any. Sirius transformed into Padfoot and tackled Harry on his way in, and Harry laughed while Sirius slobbered all over him, calling out ‘bad dog!’ over and over until Sirius transformed back into human form. “Let’s eat,” Sirius panted with a grin. He was sweaty all over and breathing heavily from overexertion.

They sat down at the newly cleaned kitchen table in a slightly cleaner kitchen, and sighed happily at their dinners—especially Harry, who hadn’t had a decent meal in days.

“Why aren’t you dead?” Harry asked without preamble. He didn’t think it was necessary to beat around the. Sirius gave him a half-amused, half-confused sort of look.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Why would I be dead?”

Harry looked at Sirius closely. “You fell through the Veil—in the Department of Mysteries. I saw you…I saw you die.”

Sirius took a bite of his dinner and looked at Harry closely. “You know, when Snivellus told me to rescue you from your Aunt and Uncle’s house,” he began, ignoring Harry’s wide eyes, “I thought he had a funny look about him...and come to think of it, he and Dumbledore both seemed a surprised at my showing up at Grimmauld Place last week. I thought it was because they weren’t expecting me until next month.”

“They didn’t say anything at all about it?” Harry asked.

“No,” Sirius said. “If I’m dead, no one’s told me, and I’d like to know what in the name of Merlin’s sweaty scrotum has given you this idea.”

“I saw you die,” Harry repeated, dinner now completely forgotten in favour of the conversation. “You came to the Department of Mysteries in June my fifth year. Bellatrix hexed you and you fell through the Veil.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Bellatrix?” Harry nodded warily. “Wouldn’t that have been ironic—old girl never did like me. I suspect it has something to do with Lucius, but that’s all I’m saying about that,” he added hastily.

Harry continued to stare at him. Sirius relented and it seemed like all of the cheeriness melted out of him in that one moment. “All right, all right. I don’t know anything about that. I wasn’t even in England at the time. All I know is that I got back last week, spent about 15 minutes glaring at Snivelly and talking to Dumbledore through the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, and next I know, Snape’s flooing in, saying he got a letter from you and for me to fetch you right away.”

“Why on earth did Hedwig go to Snape?” Harry asked, confused. “I thought she’d go to the Weasley’s.”

Sirius shrugged. “She might’ve picked the closest person who could help you. London’s closer to your aunt’s house than Devon,” he answered after several minutes of silence.

“If you’ve been alive this whole time, then why couldn’t Hedwig find you?” Harry insisted.

“You sent letters to a dead guy?” Sirius asked him. Harry gave him a withering look. “Fine, fine!” Sirius said. “She probably couldn’t get to me. I was in New York City—America, you know. Have been for almost a year.”

Harry gaped. “Did Dumbledore know?”

“Yeah, of course—and Snivellus, too. I don’t think anyone else did, though. It was Order work.”

Harry digested this information while Sirius returned to his dinner. Something was niggling him in the back of his mind—telling him that he should have remembered something about America, but he couldn’t think of it at the moment. It was like a dream—the more he tried to remember, the farther away the memory was.

He had so many questions; he just didn’t know which one to ask first or even second. Why had Dumbledore and Snape let him go on thinking his godfather was dead when he really wasn’t? He assumed that Snape was forbidden to tell him, but Dumbledore was his own boss—he should have said something instead of letting him suffer the whole time. A whole year! He’d thought Sirius was dead for a whole year!

After several minutes of thought, something jumped to the front of his mind, and he asked it without even thinking.

“Who fell through the Veil then? If you weren’t there, then that means someone else did.”

Sirius shrugged, suddenly thoughtful. “I don’t know, kiddo. And I don’t think Dumbledore knows, either.”

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. David Copperfield is by Charles Dickens.  
> 2\. Henry Winkler played Arthur Fonzarelli (a.k.a ‘the Fonz’) on Happy Days.  
> 3\. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were an American acting/dancing duo from the 1930s.  
> 4\. River House is located just west of Edinburgh on the Firth of Forth (also known as the Black River or, Abhainn Dhubh in Scottish Gaelic.)


	2. Black Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help on this chapter from Dracos_DirtySecret.
> 
> This chapter revised 04/25/11.

  


A week later, Harry and Sirius were still no closer to figuring out who had actually fallen through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, but Sirius didn’t seem overly worried—yet. After getting in touch with Dumbledore and arranging a temporary stay on Harry’s continued residency at River House, Sirius had spoken to the Headmaster at length about the issue, and it was determined that Dumbledore was looking into it with the utmost urgency.

Now, Sirius was busy settling affairs around the house. That irked Harry; he couldn’t understand why Sirius wasn’t more interested in this mystery, but nothing he said changed Sirius’ mind. Occasionally, Harry would catch Sirius staring off into space, contemplative, and other times, he would act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. When questioned, all he would say was that he’d left for America in January of 1996—just days after Harry and the rest went back to Hogwarts during their fifth year—and returned to England only a week before he got Harry from the Dursley’s house.

There was very little else that Sirius revealed, and he seemed to be truly stumped. Snape had seemed surprised to find Sirius in Grimmauld Place when he returned, and Dumbledore had not—but then again, hardly anything surprised Dumbledore, and even when it did, the Headmaster was usually quite unreadable.

Harry satisfied his own uncertainties, and decided to wait the rest out: he was positive that Sirius was who he said he was—he’d asked enough personal questions to make sure of it, and Sirius had even transformed into Padfoot again for him.

During that time, Fred and Ginger attacked the house with a focused determination, cleaning rooms so thoroughly that in some cases, they sparkled. The house was completely clean, but due to the two house-elves’ thoroughness, it was also completely empty, save for the two creaky beds that they slept on, the knapsack, and Harry’s trunk. Just that morning, they’d breakfasted on the old servants’ table in the kitchen instead of the missing dining table, which Ginger explained had two legs completely chewed through by wood-doxies, and was irreparable.

Ginger also said that the furniture was moth-eaten and disgraceful and informed them that they would be purchasing new pieces because a Black should not live in such squalor. Harry thought he had had enough to do with furniture for a while, but the diminutive house-elf was surprisingly forceful, and he quelled under her authoritative glare.

Ginger put her hands on her hips and squeaked one word. “Now.”

Sirius winced because he obviously hated furniture shopping, too. “Fine, fine,” he agreed with a very convincing, winning smile, and rushed off to his knapsack to grab a mokeskin purse full of galleons.

There was a small wizarding village called Eweforic Alley in Edinburgh, and Sirius had decided that they could go there because it was only a twenty minute walk away—not to mention less populous, and therefore safer, than Diagon Alley. Unsurprisingly, he was great with glamour spells and, after a moment’s hesitation, glamoured them both into dirty blonds with brown eyes and American accents.

They walked in comfortable silence for several minutes until Harry’s mind started overflowing with questions, as it was wont to do lately. “Why did we come to the River House?” he asked. “I thought you hated anything to do with Blacks.”

Sirius gave him a sheepish look. “Only my mother’s side. My father’s side was much more pleasant. My dad used to bring me and Regulus to visit our Grandfather Arcturus when we were younger. He was...quirky—paranoid—but not too bad. I’d rather live here than at my mother’s,” he said.

“Oh,” said Harry, and then remembered why he’d been locked up at the Dursley’s in the first place. He knew now that Hedwig had found Snape, and for some reason, Snape had gone to Sirius first instead of Dumbledore to pass on the message, but he had questions about other things. The stuff he’d seen in his aunt’s trunk had not crossed his mind once in the last week, but now it did. Hopefully, Sirius would be able to answer some of his questions, he thought.

“Tell me about my mother,” Harry said.

Sirius twitched, and stuttered incoherently for several seconds. “Your…your mother?” he asked. “What’s there to tell, eh? Lovely woman.”

“You’re hiding something,” Harry observed. He only hoped that he would be able to weasel this information out of Sirius, as he had not been able to about Sirius’ mission. Was there more to his mother’s childhood than even the contents of the trunk suggested?

“Like what?” Sirius hedged.

Harry figured he knew what the big secret was, but there was really no telling with his life, and if Sirius was this jumpy about it, he was unlikely to get more information without being a bit clever.

“I already know, so you might as well just tell me the details,” Harry said.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Has anyone told you that you look terrible in Slytherin?” Harry grinned. Their personalities were so much alike that it was almost scary.

Sirius sighed sadly. “Alright, alright. But I want you to know that it wasn’t just lust. I loved her.”

Harry stumbled over, possibly, nothing. “What?” Harry said, once recovered. He had not been expecting _that_. Sirius gave him another of his sheepdog smiles.

“I couldn’t help it. She was _mine_ first, anyway. When I saw her again right before she married your father, she was just as incredible as I remembered. I hadn’t seen her in nearly a year, but it felt like it was only yesterday. How was I supposed to say no, you know? You can’t say no to your first love…even if they _are_ marrying your best mate.”

“You _boffed_ my mother?” Harry didn’t know whether to be scandalized or...amused. Right now, he was just shocked.

“Not just the once, and I wouldn’t call it _boffing_ ,” Sirius said with a wince. “Besides…wait, what? Oh, bloody hell. You didn’t know?”

“No,” Harry said, drawing the word out in his shock. “I just wanted you to tell me about my mother’s childhood, before Hogwarts—as in her life in _America_ …with her New England Minister father. I thought you were hemming ‘cause there was even more to it than _that_.”

“Ah, damn it,” Sirius said. He gave Harry a sheepish smile and they both made an unspoken decision to forget the previous part of the conversation for the time being.

Harry was pretty sure that he should be offended or at least a little bit mad at his godfather for betraying his father like that, but then he realised that if he was mad at his godfather, he would have to be mad at his mother, and he didn’t want to be mad at her—not when she wasn’t around to defend herself. Instead, he decided to be amused, and did his best to follow through with it.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably, until Sirius cleared his throat.

“Well, what do you want to know, then?” he asked. “I met her parents once—Frank and Laurel—real stand up characters, they were. Her dad never lost that unfortunate Yank accent, but her mother was lovely. Tiny little thing. You just wanted to throw her in the air and catch her. Lily and her sister certainly got their looks from her.”

“Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked dubiously. “Hardly.”

“She was quite fit in her time...blonde hair, round bum...”

Sirius coughed awkwardly while Harry studiously pretended the last admission had not occurred, else he would lose his breakfast right here. “Sorry. Perhaps shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

“Anyway,” Sirius continued, “the Evanses, they were assassinated in ’78, but no one ever figured out who did it or why. Politically charged, most believe. Frank was quite liberal during his terms in office. Lily went to a muggle primary school in New York City with your aunt before they moved her, possibly to get away from a dangerous political climate, but that’s about all I know.”

Harry nodded, digesting the information. “But I thought my mum was muggleborn,” he said.

Sirius looked at him incredulously. “Don’t know where you got that idea from. The Evanses…they kept to themselves, mostly. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the more prestigious families just assumed Lily was muggleborn, especially since they wouldn’t have known the name. Actually, come to think of it, there was a rumour about her being a ‘mudblood’ in fifth or sixth year...back then, of course, that word was used for just about anything. She may’ve got the name from beating someone on her OWLs, but even that rumour was put to rest pretty quick. Evans isn’t a line in Britain, you know, but it’s fairly renowned in America. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a dozen aunts and uncles over there with three times as many cousins.”

“Then what about Aunt Petunia?”

Sirius shrugged again. “Suppose she’s a squib. Lily never talked about her much. There was always that rivalry between them.”

Harry nodded, and thrust his hands in his pockets. He had a lot of thinking to do, now, and it would probably be for the best if he just shut his mouth right then and let them continue on the Eweforic Alley in silence as he did so.

The walk gave him the opportunity to notice the area, which was rather pleasant. It looked a lot like the landscape around Hogwarts; he wondered how far away they actually were, but he had no idea what the actual muggle coordinates of Hogwarts were, so he couldn’t say. Their path topped a hill and the city of Edinburgh became visible, and within it, Edinburgh Castle.

Sirius led him into town and over to an old, shady looking bar just inside the city, tactlessly named The Burning Man. It was a stand-alone brick building with murals painted over the façade displaying bonfires, and hinting broadly that there might be witches inside those fires. But at least the windows were clean.

Inside, the décor was even campier. The wall sconces and table candles were fashioned to look like straw effigies tied to stakes. When the candles were lit, the effigies were inside the flames. Harry made a face of disgust, but Sirius paid no mind to all of this. He’d obviously visited many times before. Harry then wondered what Sirius’ life had been like when he was still young. He supposed that Sirius’ father brought him and his brother to this bar quite a bit when they visited their Grandfather Arcturus.

Down a hallway off to the side of the main restaurant, were the loos. Sirius gave Harry a quick grin before pushing the door open and stepping through. Harry hesitated for only a moment, wondering how Sirius could tell that it was actually the men’s room and not the ladies’ room when one was labelled ‘Witches’ and the other labelled ‘Witches’. A pointy hat on the stencilled figure denoted difference, but he still wasn’t sure whether women or men wore the pointy hats.

Looking around, no one seemed to care which door he entered, so he followed Sirius inside. Sirius was just stepping up to the last cubicle. If he squinted his eyes a bit, Harry could see the faint shimmer of a muggle-repelling charm over the door, which made it look rather unsanitary, and out-of-order to boot.

“Come on then,” Sirius said, and held the door to the stall open for Harry. It was an awkward position, and Harry hoped—really hoped—that this was in fact the entrance to wizarding Edinburgh because if it wasn’t, then he was about to be stuck in a loo with his allegedly dead godfather.

“Right,” Harry said. When he stepped inside, Sirius closed the door and Harry felt the familiar port-keying sensation in the bottom of his stomach, though they didn’t move. A second later, Sirius opened the stall door and there, right in front of Harry’s face, was Eweforic Alley.

It was nothing but old, gothic architecture, but it looked as though the area was populated by new-agers because he could see contemporary influences that Diagon Alley lacked. A couple of wizarding kids were skateboarding on levitated skateboards and an elderly couple was sitting on a bench feeding owls, shopping bags at their feet. A thought occurred to him, and he turned back around to look behind him.

The door he’d exited was labelled ‘Wizards’ and there was another labelled ‘Witches’. Well, that answered that question.

ɤɣɤ

According to a list courtesy of Ginger—who was fast becoming the lady of the house—River House needed full furnishings for one kitchen, one formal dining room, one informal dining room, one parlour, one antechamber—Harry didn’t know antechambers needed furniture—one drawing room, three studies, one sitting room, twelve bedrooms, two bedroom suites and a veranda.

This was because she’d tossed most of the original furnishings out, save for some china with the Black Family Crest and the portraits, who were standoffish. Sirius had frowned at the china, and then shook his head, deciding not to argue. Ginger was not someone to be argued with, they were fast discovering.

Sirius was going to be spending quite a bit of galleons and Harry was going to be bored out of his mind.

Fortunately, all of this could be purchased at one or two shops, so with a resigned sigh, Sirius herded Harry to Pollack and Priggins, a store on the west end of Eweforic Alley owned by two wizarding carpenters. A cheery bell jingled on their way in, and the two men were immediately accosted by the shopkeeper.

“Welcome to Pollack and Priggins!” a short, bald, and beaming man said as he rushed over and enthusiastically pumped Sirius’, then Harry’s, hands. “I’m Henry Priggins—what can I do for you gentlemen today, hmm?”

Overwhelmed, Sirius wordlessly handed Mr. Priggins the list.

“Oh my!” Mr. Priggins exclaimed. “Oh my, indeed! A full renovation. Well, we specialize in Victorian and minimalist styles, but we also have masters of gothic and middle-eastern carpentry, and of course we can do anything in between. Had you anything in particular in mind?”

“Don’t care,” Harry said at the same time Sirius said, “Victorian.”

“Not to worry, boys!” Mr. Priggins said as he looped an arm around each of their waists and hurried them over to the counter. He pulled out a huge tattered book of designs and cloth samples and plopped it down in front of them. Harry restrained himself from banging his head against the very well-made table. “We mix and match!”

Mr. Priggins thumbed quickly through several pages, licking the tip of his finger as he went, and finally stopped about a quarter way through with a triumphant, ‘Aha!’

Mr. Priggins excitedly showed them various tables, wardrobes, mirrors, chairs, divans, desks and beds. One hour and two-thousand-forty-two galleons later, Harry and Sirius had decided on and ordered all of the furniture. It was exhausting, but it was over.

Sirius was especially proud of a huge, ornate elm and ebony desk with matching chair for his study and Harry was pleased with his overly cushion-charmed wingback reading chair, which he planned to place in the library—his new favourite place. Ginger would be pleased when she saw the new dining room table.

As an afterthought, Sirius put in an order for an applewood child’s bed and matching cradle for the house-elves and their impending infant.

Next, in spite of much pleading from Harry, they headed over to Madame Fabriek’s Fine Fabrics on Myrddin Street for the curtains, rugs and duvets. Harry suspected mischief—Sirius had put on a show about not wanting to shop for furniture, but by all accounts now looked to be having the time of his life. You could lead the obnoxiously wealthy, spoiled pureblood to Gryffindor, but you couldn’t make him suffer bad interior decorating, Harry supposed.

The bell over Madame Fabriek’s was not nearly as cheery as the one at Pollack and Priggins’. When they entered, it was to a dark, imposing shop, lit by strategically placed candles, which Harry assumed were in a misguided attempt at ‘atmosphere’.

“Welcome to Madame Fabriek’s Fine Fabrics,” a low voice said from somewhere to their right. Both Sirius and Harry jumped, startled, and turned to face the voice. A tall, rail-thin woman was staring at them expectantly, and Sirius stuttered out a thank you of sorts.

“What can I help you with today?” the woman asked, neglecting to introduce herself. Sirius, not feeling comfortable with just passing a list over to this woman, gave her one of his patent smiles, and listed off everything they would need.

“Preferably in some nice…cheery…colours,” he added warily.

The woman nodded thoughtfully, and glided over to a display by the window, which was of a set of draperies made in heavy black velvet, the underside of which was lined with a faded blue silk. “Cheery like this?” the woman asked.

Sirius hesitated. “No…not exactly, maybe if…”

“I like them. I want them in my room,” Harry interrupted with a cheeky grin. “It’ll keep the sun out when I’m trying to sleep in late.”

Sirius gave him a withering look, but nodded to the shopkeeper, who pulled a quill from behind her ear and made several notes on a notepad.

They spent a significantly less amount of time in the fabric shop, mainly because even Harry was overwhelmed by the creepiness after a while. They left after purchasing Gryffindor red for nearly everything, just to cut the errand short. Sirius’ office, however, was in blue as was Harry’s bedroom.

All of their purchases would be delivered later that afternoon so they had plenty of time to spare before returning home. Harry wasn’t certain, but he got the feeling that Sirius was a little wary of Ginger’s authoritative voice. He wondered if Fred was just as wary.

“Fancy stopping for a butterbeer?” Sirius asked once they were out in daylight again.

Harry nodded. “Bit hungry, too. You gonna buy me lunch?”

Sirius clapped him on the back. “Course I will. Got all this money that the Ministry can’t get to until I’m declared dead, and nothing to spend it on except Ginger’s whims and your stomach.” They turned right and walked in the direction of the restaurants; Sirius spotted a particular café, made a pleased noise, and steered Harry towards it.

“I used to eat here all the time when I was a lad. My dad brought me and Regulus here when we were boys,” Sirius explained.

“This place,” Sirius said, gesturing to the café, which was called Merlin’s Magic Mushroom and had a hanging wooden sign with a triple M emblem, “serves the best food in Scotland. Anything and everything you could possibly want with mushrooms in it.”

“What if I don’t like mushrooms, then?” Harry asked, because it really was a very good question, considering.

Sirius shrugged. “Everybody like’s mushrooms, but I suppose you might be able to get something without them in it...maybe.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. But nevertheless, he followed Sirius in and to a booth near a window. He had no particular aversion to mushrooms. The café was filled with people, mostly young, trendy adults, Harry noted; though there were some families seated around. There was a teenage wizard band playing for tips, and the atmosphere was unlike anything he was accustomed to in the wizarding world.

Harry sat down and picked up a menu. Sirius was wrong: there was nothing that could be served without mushrooms here. Well—he supposed he could have an everything pizza with no mushrooms, but he’d never really been that keen on pizza, having not much opportunity to eat it as a kid.

“Merry meet, what’ll you eat?” a cheery voice sing-songed. Harry cringed at the absolute absurdity of such a greeting, and sent his pity out to all the waiters and waitresses who were forced to repeat that line at every table.

Across from him, Sirius was hiding a smile behind his menu; Harry glared at him witheringly. He turned to the bright-eyed, blonde-haired waitress who was currently flashing him a smile so blinding he wanted to shield his eyes.

“Ah, I suppose I’ll have the stuffed mushrooms and a side of portabella chips,” he said. The waitress grinned and wrote his order down on a mushroom-shaped notepad with a self-inking quill she’d kept behind her ear.

She looked expectantly at Sirius because she obviously didn’t have any more cutesy rhymes.

“What’s the soup of the day?” he asked. Harry had the most suspicious feeling that Sirius was trying to have them on. Harry had never even _been here_ before and he already knew what the soup would be.

“Crème of Mushroom.” Supposing there was more than one kind of mushroom soup, of course.

“You don’t have the Mushroom Chowder, then, today?” Sirius asked, apparently disappointed. The waitress shook her head ‘no’ still grinning like a loon, and that’s when Harry realised why they called the café Merlin’s Magic Mushroom—narcotics were obviously included in the pay packet of staff.

“That’s Thursdays.”

Sirius sighed. “I’ll have the Fried Mushrooms then.”

The waitress positively chirped and scampered off, presumably to put their orders in, and Harry took a moment to take in his surroundings. “Your father—a pureblooded dark wizard,” Harry added significantly, “brought you to this place as a child?” He then noticed that the table tops were painted to look like fairy rings. Could this place be any more twee?

Sirius shrugged easily. “He liked mushrooms.”

“I like mushrooms, too, all things considered,” Harry said. Both his eyebrows were lifted pointedly, as if the extremity of the situation were altogether beyond him.

“Well, we’re Blacks. Blacks love mushrooms. It’s in our blood. Like bad tempers, insanity and dark magic. My father would suffer anything gladly for a good mushroom hoagie.”

“Even fools?” Harry asked, amused.

“Even fools,” Sirius answered seriously, which was an amusing thought in and of itself.

Several minutes later, the chirpy waitress returned with their orders and Harry was pleased to see that his portabella chips were prepared just like the ones the elves made at Hogwarts. They dug in, though Sirius looked like he would be using three forks if they were available to him. Harry supposed that it was just the pure-blood upbringing. Habit—Sirius could eat a plate full of fried, greasy, mushroom caps and still keep a pinkie out. They dropped all conversation in favour of mushrooms, finishing with satisfied smiles and full bellies.

Afterwards, they still had a few hours to kill before they needed to be back at the house to greet the delivery wizards, and Sirius had a wicked gleam in his eye that Harry didn’t like one bit.

“You need a haircut.”

“I need a lot of things,” Harry replied dismissively. “Like air, water, and a colossal porn collection.” Sirius smirked. Harry didn’t like where this was going.

“I can tell you’ve been using your mate Ron’s trimming charms on it, and I can rightly say you’ve bodged it well up,” Sirius replied easily. “Besides—James would have my wand if he knew I let you run around with long hair.”

“What did my dad have against long hair?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sirius grinned. “Said it was poncy...usually when my own got a bit long, come to think of it.” Harry choked on his drink.

“I don’t suppose teenage rebellion would have any effect on the outcome of this conversation, would it?” he asked hopefully.

“Not me you’re rebelling against, kiddo.” Sirius pointed towards the ceiling. “It’s the big guy up there. He’s the one you’re going to have to answer to.”

“What, you mean God?”

“Nope,” Sirius answered. “Your dad.”

And so, under duress, Harry got a haircut at a place called The Shear and Scissor on Eweforic Alley next to the carpentry shop. Cropped close in the back and longer in the front, and just because he was a little pissed off at Sirius for guilt-tripping him into it, he had the stylist charm the tips of his hair Hufflepuff Yellow. Sirius pitched an amazing fit until Harry admitted that it would fade in a week.

When the stylist—who was, even in the subtlest sense of the words, a queen—suggested that Harry invest in a few nice clothes to set off his ‘lovely face’, and Sirius got another gleam in his eye, Harry decided he’d had enough.

“The delivery wizards are going to be at the manor soon,” he said. “We need to get back.”

Sirius knew that it was a distraction, but he was admittedly quite excited about the new desk for his study—Harry couldn’t begin to fathom what kind of work Sirius intended to do at said desk, but he caved, and that was all that mattered to Harry, in the end.

“I reckon you’re right,” Sirius said, and they headed home.

On the walk back, Harry ran his fingers through his hair and scowled because there wasn’t enough there. It was another quiet walk in a comfortable silence and he began to think even more about his godfather’s unwitting admission to having an affair with his mother, something he’d successfully put out of his mind with the never-ending decision-making required of interior decorating.

He was a bit angry, once he thought about it. Because Sirius was James’ best friend and he shouldn’t have done that—Harry never would’ve done anything like that to Ron, but then again, he didn’t think Ron would ever date anyone Harry would want to go after. Hermione, now—Hermione might need to keep an eye on anyone she dated. Of course, Harry wouldn’t do that to her anyway, which brought him back around to Sirius being a complete tosser.

“You really are a bit of a git,” he finally said, breaking the silence after nearly ten minutes. Sirius, who was walking next to him with his nose in the air, watching a couple of magpies fly around, looked at him in surprise.

“What? Why?” he asked.

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “My mother…” he said, and Sirius cringed.

“Look, kiddo,” he began, but Harry shook his head again.

“No—no,” he said. “I mean, I understand your side of it, I think. She was your girlfriend first, you said. It’s just that, she was marrying my dad, then, and I don’t know how either of you could do something like that.”

“I never said I was proud of it,” Sirius said. “James was my best mate since Hogwarts, and I never wanted to do anything to hurt him, but that also meant that we never told him when we were dating in school, because I knew he had a bit of a thing for her. It wasn’t easy for me to come home from Order work to find my ex-girlfriend engaged to my best mate, who wanted nothing more than tell me every detail of their relationship.”

“I know—it’s just…it’s _not right_. I understand love, but why do that to your best mate? Why’d she say she’d marry him in the first place if she was going to just go and cop off with you?”

Sirius sighed, obviously not comfortable with the conversation, but Harry needed to know. He wished he’d never known, but now that he did, he had to know all of it. He was so utterly tired of not knowing his family’s history.

“Well,” Sirius said, pushing his hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture. “We _were_ going to. I guess she changed her mind.”

Harry could see River House from where they were now. They were nearly home, and he needed to know this before the hustle of Ginger and delivery-wizards stole his change. He waited quietly for his godfather to continue.

“You’ve got to remember that this was a time of war,” Sirius said. “And families were split right down the middle. My brother, Regulus…” Sirius sighed, searching for words. “….Regulus was a good kid. He was smart, and I hated him for getting involved in the Death Eaters. I hated him so much, but he was my brother, you know.

“You can’t help loving your family even if you hate them, and James was so unequivocally _good_ , you know? It was hard for him to relate. Reg was just another Death Eater to him.” Harry didn’t know. He didn’t even know where Sirius was going with this, but he nodded anyway and gave him his full attention.

“Moony told me to help Regulus, though. Anyway, we were seventeen at the time and Regulus was sixteen. He’d been a Death Eater for about six months, so far as I knew, and I’d had enough. Remus was right.

“I was going to get my brother back one way or another, no matter how please my Mum was with him,” Sirius said with a humourless laugh. “I’d been dating Lily for about two years—secretly of course—and when I told her my plans, she had a fit. Said I was a right idiot.”

“What was your plan?” Harry asked, when it seemed like Sirius wasn’t going to continue.

His godfather was lost in thought, but he looked up again at Harry’s words. “My plan,” he said, “was to become a Death Eater so I could watch over him, and that was about as far as it got.” Harry inhaled sharply.

“What?” he said.

Sirius nodded. “Yeah—yeah, and I had it all planned out. I knew all the dark spells and potions and I knew all about pure-blood supremacy. I could’ve done it, probably, and I would have—for Reg.”

“You could have killed?” Harry asked, barely controlling the shaking of his limbs. He had not expected that from Sirius, but then again, he sometimes forgot how his godfather was raised. Sirius gave him an odd look.

“I knew Avada Kedavra before I went to Hogwarts, kid, and you can’t learn that spell without practicing. You’ve got to remember the family I grew up in.” Sirius took another deep breath and continued without looking at Harry. “Anyway, I told her what I was going to do, said we’d have to wait a bit longer to get back together, but she wasn’t having any of it. She said she would take care of it. She was a Ravenclaw, you know, and I believed her when she said it. I mean, we argued about it, but she was rather clever, and she eventually won.”

By then, Harry and Sirius were close enough to home to see the delivery wizards port-keying in with all of their furniture. He slowed down his paced, hoping Sirius would finish the story. Sirius slowed with him.

“I don’t know what she was going to do, but she disappeared for a month or two and then Dumbledore sent me to the continent on Order work. James wrote two weeks later and said that Regulus’ body had been found.

“After that,” Sirius said, “Lily’s letters started getting rarer. I think she felt guilty for not succeeding, but…I needed her then more than ever. My Order mission lasted longer than everyone expected, and I didn’t get home for another eight months.

“When I got back, she was engaged to Jamie. Summer fling, I’d hoped, but she seemed determined to make it work with him, and, officially, we’d split up anyway. I suppose she loved him, and I couldn’t fault her that, but I can tell you, it certainly wasn’t the mutt’s nuts having to be Jamie’s best man. I hated him that day. After the wedding photos came back, Remus told me I needed to perk up, because my anger was showing in the pictures, so I pushed her out of my mind, and remembered that James was my mate.”

Sirius shrugged. “Lily got really into her research for a while—going to different places and studying Merlin-knows-what. A few months after that, when Remus was off herding in the werewolves and I was drinking myself into oblivion, she found me.

“At a bar, no less,” Sirius laughed humourlessly. “I was pissed, of course. It was raining and she wasn’t ever very good at water-repellent charms; I told her she looked like a drowned rat. She told me to fuck off.”

Harry looked at Sirius incredulously. _He_ used that kind of language, but that was his mother. It was difficult to believe that she would talk like that, but somehow, it made her more human, and he liked that.

“You told her that?” Harry asked, indignant on her behalf.

Sirius nodded, laughing genuinely now. “I did. We talked for a bit; she never would tell me why she’d changed her mind and decided she wanted James after all, though I did ask. I was mad enough to want answers, and drunk enough to think I could handle them. She obviously disagreed. We argued for a bit, and then things got heated, and...” Sirius shrugged again, looking a little bit uncomfortable. “You know,” he said pointedly, “…we, er, had a bit of—we fucked.”

Harry coughed, blushing.

“A lot,” Sirius continued, gaining his stride and smiling delightedly at Harry’s discomfort. “It went on until…you know, that night. Halloween. I kept thinking she’d leave Jamie and come back to me, and it was the only thing that kept me going most of the time. She never did, though. I don’t think she ever would’ve. She loved him, too, and he was more—stable.” He looked sad again, and Harry was amazed at how quickly Sirius’ moods could change.

They reached the manor and Ginger caught sight of them as they trudged up the gravel drive. She was busy directing the delivery wizards to the appropriate rooms with their loads, but managed to come forward and greet them.

“Masters,” she squeaked, curtseying. “Ginger is making sure delivery wizards do good jobs and Fred is hanging curtains.”

“Very good, Ginger, thank you,” Sirius replied.

“Dinner will be ready at seven. We is having shepherd’s pie. Can Ginger do anything else for masters right now?”

“No, thank you, Ginger,” Harry said. She nodded and popped back over to the delivery area, directing the placement of furniture with an iron fist. Harry felt a little bit sorry for the delivery wizards, but not nearly as sorry as he felt for Fred, who had to live with her.

Sirius turned to him, his shoulders a little tense. “So…kiddo…does that answer your question? Do you hate me? Do you want me to take you back to your aunt and uncle’s? Or to Dumbledore or anything?”

Harry gaped. “Of course I don’t hate you, and of course I want to stay with you.” He paused thoughtfully before continuing with, “Dumbledore would have never allowed me to colour my hair.”

Sirius scowled. “I still don’t like those and if you were _my_ son…” he paused, considering. “Well, if you were my son, I’d just be thankful that you’ve turned out better than I did,” he said.

Harry laughed and ducked the cuffing that Sirius aimed at his head.

ɤɣɤ

Sometime last year—when he’d _still_ been negligent of his Occlumency lessons—before his sixth year at Hogwarts began, Harry Potter fell asleep in his bed at Privet Drive and woke up in audience of the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

At first, it was accidental. According to extensive research, Harry had inadvertently called out to Voldemort with his mind, while asleep, instead of the other way around. He wasn’t sure how he’d done it at the time, but he knew he’d been thinking—worrying—about _Him_ constantly that day. Research called it Astral Projection, but this felt different.

It was a subconscious longing, he finally decided, that allowed it to happen. Deep in his mind he had wanted answers, and he knew he wouldn’t get them from Dumbledore or the Order, so he subconsciously looked elsewhere. That brought him right to the Dark Lord’s personal sitting room—wherever it was.

To say that Lord Voldemort was surprised was an understatement; he was well and truly gobsmacked when he looked up from his reading to find Harry Potter staring at him with frightened doe eyes.

He’d thought it was a spy tactic. He’d thought it was a trick, an illusion. He’d thought it was anything but Harry bloody Potter confused and angry—coming to him just for a bloody _chat_.

Harry had asked him about the weather—mainly because he was too scared to think of anything else, and he wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t a dream. Harry said it seemed much cooler in wherever they were than at Hogwarts. Of course, he hadn’t been at Hogwarts, but he hadn’t been keen on releasing that information. Lord Voldemort had set his book down on a side table and looked up at the boy with very faint amusement.

“Indeed,” Voldemort had replied. “But I’ve found plenty of rocks to bask on.” And Harry had laughed—stiltedly, but laughed nevertheless.

Conversation came slowly, but steadily, after that, and neither was able to offer any decent reason why an evil dark lord and a boy hero trying to kill each other could handle such a thing. Know thine enemy? At first, perhaps.

Truth be told, they both enjoyed the midnight talks, and Harry began to subconsciously call out for him more and more until their meetings became weekly. Voldemort found himself waiting up for him on many nights, though he would never admit it.

Slowly, the conversations became more intelligent with each of them firing off political, economical and moral opinions for hours. That’s when they found that they shared several similar if not identical views—mostly relating to the rights of magical creatures—and many that they didn’t share, they were able to work hypothetical compromises out for. It was all hypothetical, but it scared Harry more than anything.

In Voldemort’s opinion, the boy was passably intelligent. He was sly and cunning, and well and truly a Slytherin—if Potter would only admit it—at heart. That didn’t mean Voldemort wouldn’t kill him when it came to it, though.

Yet, Harry Potter had everyone wrapped around his little finger, and having him as an ally would be most beneficial. Voldemort could defeat him, there was little doubt about that, but why waste such an intelligent mind if you didn’t have to?

Voldemort told Potter this occasionally, and Potter always got upset. He would flash his eyes angrily and say something like ‘Why would I join the guy who killed my parents?’ and Voldemort would respond with a lipless smile and ‘excellent question, Potter. You tell me.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Harry would respond and Voldemort would cackle because it was such a _Potter_ sort of answer. Such a _Dumbledore_ sort of answer. When Potter got like that, Voldemort found that he was rather fond of him. It would be a shame to kill him.

But Harry knew none of this, and when Harry fell asleep that night, he found himself in the same sitting room that he had the first time it had happened. Voldemort was standing with his back to him, oblivious to Harry’s arrival, staring out of a window and muttering to himself in Parseltongue.

Behind him, curled up on a chair, his snake Nagini looked on with detached interest. She was obviously used to this kind of behaviour.

“Hello,” Harry said, and was not surprised when his voice came out strong, though when he looked down at his body, he could see through it. He couldn’t believe this was happening again—actually, he could, really, he just didn’t want to. He hated himself for looking forward to this, for allowing it to keep happening.

Abruptly, Voldemort turned and stared at Harry with unreadable eyes. “Good evening,” he said. No matter how many times this happened, Voldemort was always cautious of Harry when he first arrived. He must have expected it by now, with as many times as it had happened, but nevertheless, Voldemort never let his guard down.

Harry looked around, and seeing an empty chair, walked over to it and sat down, though it really made little difference what he did with only a semi-corporeal body. Voldemort sneered at him for his rudeness.

“Won’t you sit down?” Voldemort asked sarcastically. Harry gave him a grin that was more confident than he felt. He wasn’t real. He wasn’t all there—only his mind—and there was no way Voldemort could hurt him in any way while that was the case. He could insult and threaten him all he wanted, but in the end, Harry would still wake up in his own bed. His research had proven that.

“Thank you,” Harry replied, and with a glare, Voldemort took the chair across from him and called his house-elf, Horvitz, for tea.

Harry always found it humorous that every time this happened, Tom always called for tea for them, and every time, the Dark Lord’s tea-cup never matched the rest of the set. It was an incredibly ugly, gaudy thing.

Voldemort glanced at him, said ‘I presume you still take two sugars?’ and dropped them in before Harry could even answer. Harry supposed this was what it was like to be a ghost because when the Dark Lord passed his tea over to him, he was able to hold it, but he wasn’t able to feel it in his hands or taste it when he swallowed.

Voldemort knew this because the second time Harry had ever popped up in his sitting room, he’d laced the tea with cyanide and there were no adverse effects. Sometimes, he still laced the tea with cyanide, for his own amusement. Harry was aware of this, and still drank the tea—even when Voldemort made it a point be obvious as he tipped the little vial of poison in the cup.

Voldemort took his with one sugar, no milk and a slice of lemon. Harry could see the steam rising from the kettle as it was poured into the gilded cup and brought to the Dark Lord’s thin lips. His red eyes peered at Harry over the edge of the double-handled goblet and regarded him curiously, settling back into his chair.

“I presume you are enjoying your summer with your disgraceful muggle relatives?” he asked, almost politely. If there was one thing Harry could say about Voldemort, it was that he was an impeccable host.

Harry gave him a _look_ , anyway, because he wasn’t entirely sure how much he could give away and still remain safe. He decided not to reveal anything at the moment. The blood-wards on Privet Drive were void now that Voldemort had Harry’s blood running through his veins, but Voldemort had never felt it necessary to risk that. He wasn’t completely certain he wouldn’t be harmed if he tried to cross them, Harry suspected, and there was no use tempting him further by telling him that he was no longer there.

“Distasteful as ever,” Harry answered instead.

Voldemort barked out a surprised, hissing laugh and gave Harry what he suspected was meant to be a smile, though he couldn’t be certain, what with Voldemort not having much of anything for lips.

“Would you like me to have them taken care of?”

Given recent events, Harry was almost tempted to allow it, but knew that he couldn’t. If he did, what would that make him?

“No,” Harry said, taking an unproductive sip of his tea. It was all for effect, he decided, and he needed something to do with his hands or he would fidget. “Erm, have a good day?”

Voldemort grinned. “Lovely. I had one of the Carrows under _Crucio_ for eleven minutes. He’s getting better. He used to only be able to hold out for seven and a half. And a letter from Lucius pleased me today, so it was, all things considered, a good day.”

Harry scowled, but it was not for the normal reason. “I don’t like Lucius…wait, he’s in Azkaban.” Voldemort shrugged, noncommittally, and Harry wanted to pull his hair out. So Lucius wasn’t in Azkaban. The _Daily Prophet_ hadn’t reported it. What was going on? “You got him out?”

Voldemort merely shrugged again, his sharp, bony shoulders lifting delicately.

“I noticed that you didn’t attack Manchester last weekend,” Harry said, changing the subject.

Voldemort shrugged again. “You were right, I decided. It would have been too much work with too little reward. The wizarding area of Manchester is rural at best, and there’s no sense slaughtering a flock of muggles if they don’t know why they’re being attacked.”

“That’s what I said,” Harry said.

“I know,” Voldemort replied, sipping from his teacup. “And when Fenrir told me it was a great idea to attack, I decided that it couldn’t possibly be, so I cancelled.”

“They’ll get restless,” Harry interjected, annoyed and disgusted. Fenrir was a despicable, horrible person—if he could even still be called that. “The Death Eaters, I mean. If you don’t let them rape and pillage enough,” he said, his stomach twisting. “They might start defecting.”

Voldemort raised a single thin eyebrow. “It’s not all rape, murder and pillage, you understand.”

“Bellatrix?” Harry asked snidely, remembering what she’d done to—someone. He still didn’t know what had actually happened and who had actually fallen through the Veil. He wanted to ask Dumbledore about it again, but then, he had a funny feeling that Dumbledore might know something about it that Harry really didn’t want to know.

“She’s in Azkaban,” Voldemort replied coolly. “I didn’t feel it was worth either my time or my resources to extricate her. I only retrieved Lucius, as he was the only one the _Daily Prophet_ did not report as being arrested in the first place. They won’t be able to report on him.”

“You and me both,” Harry muttered, thinking of Bellatrix. What a piece of work.

“We agree on something?” Voldemort said. He looked thoughtful, and then said, “We do agree on many things, Harry Potter. We could make this world great, you know.”

Harry was silent for many minutes. “I know,” he replied quietly. He looked Voldemort in the eye. “If only you didn’t kill so many people and I killed more.”

“It’s not all about the killing,” Voldemort repeated, and Harry felt himself slipping. His fingers flickered in and out of view and Voldemort watched as he disappeared completely.

At River House, Harry rolled over in his bed and rubbed at his scar.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Burning Man is a festival held in the desert for hippies who like to run about naked and burn huge wicker dolls. www.burningman.com  
> 2\. The idea for the theme of the bar is a nod to a good friend, Dracos_DirtySecret, who writes the awesome fanfic, [The Burning Times](http://thehexfiles.net/viewstory.php?sid=3579).


	3. Black Coat

  


At breakfast the next morning, when Sirius was pouring his second cup of coffee and trying to figure out what he was going to do about his godson, the letter came. The envelope was stark white, secured with the Hogwarts seal, and when the owl landed on the table between him and a bowl of cold porridge, Sirius got excited at the prospect of the mystery being solved before remembering that it was still only seven a.m. and he was eating breakfast.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered to the owl, just as Harry stumbled into the kitchen and flopped down across from him. Harry was staring at the owl with an undisguised look of curiosity. Dumbledore had said he wouldn’t try to send him back to the Dursley’s house, especially after hearing how Sirius found him, but that didn’t mean the Headmaster wasn’t up to something else. He was rather wily.

“What’s it say, then?” Harry asked with a nod of his head to the envelope. Sirius did his best to reach around the owl, still holding its leg out, to his porridge—Ginger said he needed more fibre in his diet. Still, it was too early in the morning to be dealing with Dumbledore. “Well if you aren’t going to open it, can I?”

“Fine,” Sirius mumbled and untied the letter, ripping it open and tossing the envelope aside. “It says,” he began, skimming the letter, “that he hopes that we’ve enjoyed our holiday so far, no development on whether or not I’m really dead, and here’s your school list.”

Harry gaped. “Bollocks,” he said, ignoring Sirius’ unconcerned chiding of ‘mind your fucking language’. “That’s all he says? No explanation? No ‘I’m really all powerful and omniscient and this is who fell through the Veil’? No ‘oh, I forgot to mention, we figured out who was impersonating your godfather at the Department of Mysteries’?”

Sirius shook his head. “Nope. None of that. But he does say you’ll need dress robes this year.”

Harry made a face. “Blimey, I hope you’re having me on.” Annoyed, he snatched a hot bowl of porridge from Fred, and immediately regretted it when he remembered what Fred had to put up with from Ginger. “Sorry, Fred,” he muttered and returned his attention back to his godfather, oblivious to the delighted grinning from the house-elf.

“You _are_ joking about the dress robes, right? I hate dances.”

“Of course,” Sirius said. He was smirking.

He sighed and changed the subject. “So—we’ve got the rest of the summer and it’s only the second week of July. What’re we going to do?” he asked as he dug in to his breakfast. Sirius wrinkled his nose in a very pureblood way as he watched. Harry’s table manners, when at home, left something to be desired.

“We could start with teaching you proper table manners.”

Harry laughed. “Yeah? Which spoon should I use?”

“The one Fred’s holding out for you,” Sirius replied flatly. Harry looked down. Fred was indeed holding out a spoon for him. He looked between the spoon he was currently eating with and the one being offered to him. With a resigned sigh, Harry accepted the spoon and held it up to inspect it.

It was polished silver with a little ‘B’ encircled in thorns on the handle.

“You purebloods are so bloody prissy,” he muttered. Sirius laughed.

“You’re pureblooded, too, and even James knew which piece of cutlery to use.” Harry scowled at his godfather, which earned him another laugh. “Come on, kiddo,” Sirius said with another laugh. “It won’t kill you. Besides, you’ll need it for all of those posh dinners you’ll get invited to after you save the world.”

With one final scowl, Harry relented, and they spent the rest of the morning practicing how to eat properly—which Harry thought was entirely useless, but watching Sirius acting so proper was entertaining enough for him to play along.

At dinner that night, Harry didn’t even realise that he’d automatically eaten his salad with the correct fork and switched when the main course came up. Sirius smirked behind his glass of faerie wine, and decided not to say anything.

ɤɣɤ

River House had three storeys, with the sleeping quarters on the first floor, and the living quarters and chapel on the ground floor. The elf and servant quarters were on the top floor along with a small owlery and observation tower.

Sirius had picked out a study for himself on the main floor, declaring cheekily that he was rightly Lord of the Manor, and every lord should have his own study, while Harry, having discovered an extensive, if archaic, library on their second day there, spent most of his time flipping through old books. His comfy reading chair was perfectly out of place in the medieval room.

The library of River House was fast becoming Harry’s favourite place. It was massive—the full three storeys tall, with books stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling and bigger than the entire Dursley residence. The walls—what little could be seen for all the books—were dark Chestnut wood panelled, and the floor was the same sort of smooth dark grey stone that the exterior of the house was made from, and that Harry couldn’t name but was certain was an expensive feature.

There was a spiralling iron staircase right in the middle of the room that wound up from the ground floor to a loft with a reading nook and more books on the first storey. The second floor was reached by ladder from the second floor and contained—so far as Harry could tell—the darker books, which was ironic because in the early morning, the sun struck the windows and a huge skylight in the ceiling just right to make the room almost unbearably bright.

The main floor was dedicated to transfiguration and potions texts with a corner full of wizarding romance novels—Harry had no idea who included those—while the first floor was charms, hexes and a bit of divinations. But the second storey—the second storey was the best because not only did it house all of the not-quite-illegal-but-certainly-dark-books, it also had a decent-sized section devoted to the Black family history.

It was during one of his daily trips to the library—which Harry had been conducting since they arrived a week prior—that he stumbled across something intriguing. It was stuffed to the back behind a dark potions book written by someone so obviously paranoid that they’d published it only under the initials R.A.B.

Harry pushed the book aside and peered behind it. He could see something glinting in the light of the room and he reached back carefully to retrieve it. There was no telling what kind of hexes the Blacks felt were necessary on their things, so being careful wouldn’t really do much good if it were indeed hexed, but Harry was as cautious as possible.

It was another book—which Harry really didn’t think he should be too surprised about—but it was different because it didn’t look to be bound in paper. When he touched it, his hand didn’t melt off, and he figured it was okay to grab it, so he did, pulling it carefully from its hiding place.

Harry sat back and studied the cover, feeling simultaneously more intrigued and more disgusted. It wasn’t bound with paper, no, it was bound with skin. And it glinted in the light as if it had been bronzed at one time. There was no title or writing at all on the cover, so he flipped it open.

Inside, written in a barely decipherable archaic script, it read, _‘For you, my Darling, because even if you are no longer with me, part of you will always be here.’_ Harry cringed, wondering who would preserve their dead lover by turning their skin into a book, but he was interested and didn’t put it down.

For hours, Harry read, because it was better than Dickens by bounds—even if it was rather macabre.

It was love letters—a whole collection of them written to a dead man in a painfully desperate voice. Some were hopeful—she seemed to think she could resurrect him. And it was quite possible that she could because there were notes and theories on necromancy interspersed throughout.

When Fred called him down to dinner, Harry wasn’t even a quarter of the way through. Carefully, he closed the book and stuck it in a pocket in his robes for later reading, and headed downstairs to eat.

Sirius was already waiting at the table, dressed in some grotty muggle blue jeans with his hair tied up in a tail at the nape of his neck. Harry suddenly realised that he’d been tricked into getting his hair cut when his godfather had totally skipped out on it.

He growled, low in his throat, as he approached the table.

“What’ve you been up to?” he asked casually as he picked up his soup spoon and tested it. It wasn’t too hot so he dug in without hesitating.

Sirius grinned at him from across the table. “I was working in the garden,” he said.

Harry was not impressed. “A likely story,” he said.

“Right, well, actually Fred was working in the garden and I was digging up everything he planted. We found gnomes,” he added, quite excited.

Harry laughed, imagining Padfoot being absolutely irritating and poor Fred being absolutely at the end of his rope. “Did you get rid of the gnomes, then?”

“I ate one,” Sirius admitted sheepishly. “Well—not so much _ate it_ ate it…more like _destroyed it_ ate it.” He shuddered. “Dreadful tasting creatures—Fred got rid of the rest with one of those house-elfy finger snaps. He said he sent them to France, so at least there’s that sorted.”  
Harry laughed again. “I didn’t know you had anything against the French.”

“I don’t,” Sirius said. “Apparently Fred does, though. Probably his old masters. The Irish can be a bit queer, you know.”

They continued eating, Ginger delivering the main course with the sort of elaborate fanfare as only she could, until Sirius remembered something.

“Oh!” he said, remembering to swallow everything in his mouth first—because sometimes he could still hear his mother reprimanding him in his head when he didn’t—“I met our neighbours.”

“We have neighbours?” Harry asked. He couldn’t remember any other wizarding homes in the area. They were just west of Edinburgh, but on the river, as they were, there was no development

“Yeah,” Sirius answered. “Xavier and Yasmin Smith. They live on the other side of the crags, and they have a son about your age at Hogwarts.”

Harry mentally ran through a list of all the boys he could think of at Hogwarts. The only Smith he could remember was… “Don’t tell me his name is Zacharias,” he said flatly.

Sirius grinned, nodding his head in excitement. “Yeah, so you know him?”

“Unfortunately,” Harry said. “Twatty little git.” He remembered Zacharias Smith from the DA in fifth year, and that was enough for him.

“Glad you like them,” Sirius said, “because I invited them for dinner tomorrow night.”

Harry moaned pathetically, and put his head in his hands, somehow managing to keep his elbows off of the table. “Isn’t that a little risky? I mean, you _are_ a dead, wanted criminal.”

Sirius waved a dismissive hand. “They already recognized me. Gave me a right fright, but they didn’t seem to care. Xavier thought it was rather funny, actually. Said they weren’t afraid of me because they weren’t Potters or muggles.”

Harry laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Wonderful.”

ɤɣɤ

What Sirius meant when he said that the Smiths lived on the other side of the crags, was that the Smiths lived on the other side of the A90, passed where it became the Forth Bridge. Harry didn’t think that made them so much neighbours as it made them people who lived in the same county. A lot of wizards lived in Surrey, and he didn’t consider a one of them neighbours except for Mrs Figg, which was why Harry was even more disgruntled that they’d been invited to dinner. He didn’t have a lot of good experience with neighbours.

Sirius had become rather frantic about playing the perfect host. He had Ginger running around preparing and changing menus all day while Fred completed the front gardens. Harry supposed it was his upbringing coming to the forefront now that he was back in a family home that he respected, and did his best to stay out of the way.

Unfortunately, Sirius had other plans.

“You’re not wearing that tonight,” he said to Harry sometime after lunch. Harry was sprawled out on a comfortable chaise on the veranda, reading one of the wizard romance novels from the library. He raised a lazy eyebrow and stared at his godfather.

“I’ve got some jeans and a jumper I can wear,” he said.

Sirius shook his head emphatically. “No, no, no,” he said. “The Smiths were acquaintances of my grandfather. Old house—you can’t wear jeans to dinner when you’re hosting people like them.”

Harry stared at Sirius incredulously. “When did you become Martha Stewart?”

Sirius scrunched his nose in confusion. “Who’s she?”

Harry waved his hand dismissively and sat up straight, dropping his book to the ground in the process. “Are you serious?” he asked. Sirius started to grin and Harry waved him off again, irritated. “Don’t. That’s a horrible pun. I mean, are you really going to make me dress up all _posh_ just to eat dinner with some old purebloods and their prat son?”

For his credit, Sirius did look at least slightly sheepish. “C’mon, kiddo,” he said pleadingly. “I it’s just one night. We need to establish alliances.”

Harry gaped. “You could’ve, you know, not invited them to dinner,” he said. Sirius looked torn, and Harry almost felt bad about being a brat, but the annoyance he felt at his godfather trying to change him overwhelmed it quickly.

“No,” Sirius said, shaking his head, frustrated. “It would’ve been an incredible faux pas.” He hesitated, and then turned on the puppy-dog eyes, which, admittedly, suited him. “ _Please_ , Harry! James wouldn’t want me to let you run around dressed like that anyway.”

“Are you manipulating me?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“No,” Sirius answered quickly—too quickly.

“You are,” Harry said, eyes narrowed, “but I’ll go along with it. I don’t care about the clothes, you know. If you’d wanted me to buy new clothes, you just had to say so. The only reason I never did before was because at the Dursley’s I never had the money, and after that I didn’t want the Dursleys to _know_ I had money. You don’t have to manipulate me into doing it.”

He stood up quickly from his lounge chair and glared at Sirius. “Come on then. Let’s go. If I’m putting up with tailors all afternoon, then you are, too. You look just as bad as I do.”

Sirius whimpered, and followed him. He cast a glamour on himself, but wisely left Harry alone, in case he attacked physically.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered once they were on the gravel drive leading off the manor property and Sirius had caught up with Harry. Harry didn’t answer, but kept walking. He waved at Fred, tending the rose bushes, as they passed, but made no further acknowledgements to either.

“I’m really sorry,” Sirius said again, this time with more emphasis.

Harry shot him another glare. “Don’t be sorry; just don’t try to manipulate me. I’m so bloody _tired_ of being manipulated, be it by you or _Dumbledore_ with that dratted _prophecy_ or Snape and his _mind games_ …” Harry ranted, mostly to himself, but Sirius cringed and winced appropriately.

Sirius waited until Harry had quieted and was only stomping along and breathing heavily before he voiced a concern. “Prophecy?” he questioned hesitantly. “You know it?”

Harry turned to look at him sharply. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything about that,” he muttered. “Have you heard it?”

Sirius shook his head. “I only know there is one. I’ve never heard it. Lily didn’t believe in divination, so she didn’t think it was worth telling, and James was too superstitious to tell anyone.”

They walked along for several more minutes, when Harry finally threw his arms up in the air and sighed.

“It says I have to defeat the Dark Lord or else he’ll defeat me,” he said. Sirius’ eyebrows shot up and his eyes grew wide.

“You have to kill or be killed then?” Sirius asked faintly.

Harry shot him another look. “Yes, no, yes…I don’t know,” he said angrily.

“Prophecies are tricky,” Sirius said. “To defeat doesn’t necessarily mean ‘kill’.”

Harry shrugged. “It’ll probably come down to that,” he said, “I don’t know how else he could be defeated, and I’m certainly not going down without a fight.”

Sirius contemplated this. He was working through all sorts of scenarios—mostly bad, but some rather humorous because Sirius was naturally an optimistic person—when his godson sighed again.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Harry said, sounding a great deal calmer and certainly more composed.

“Like what?” Sirius asked in relief. They were finally approaching Edinburgh proper and the Burning Man was only a five minute’s walk away. Harry sent him a wicked grin.

“Like what you’re going to get me for my birthday,” he said.

Sirius choked and sputtered for a couple seconds. “Who says I’m getting you anything at all?” he tried to ask innocently, but Harry sent him another grin when he caught the red flush on Sirius’ face that proved his godfather was anything but innocent. “How old are you going to be again? Fifteen?”

Harry smacked his shoulder. “Seventeen!” he said indignantly. “You know that! I’ll be able to use magic outside of Hogwarts!”

Sirius laughed. “I know, kiddo,” he said. “What do you want then?”

Harry shrugged with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face. “I dunno. I want to be taller.”

Sirius laughed again. “You have been growing—nearly as tall as me now. Maybe you just hit your growth spurt late.” Sensing that Harry really didn’t care how tall he was, Sirius bumped him with his shoulder and grinned. “What do you really want?”

“A really big porn collection…”

“Harry!” Sirius laughed, cuffing the back of his head. Harry ducked and grinned at him.

“I guess I want to know things,” Harry finally answered with a shrug. “I felt kind of stupid today for not knowing ‘proper etiquette’,” he said, quoting with his fingers, “even though I think it’s stupid. My parents were a part of this world and I know almost nothing about it. I know the spells that are taught in school and whatever Ron or Hermione just happen to mention.

“Even Ron knows all these cooking and cleaning charms—and that hair trimming charm I used to use, and Hermione knows some pretty wild jinxes, not that she ever puts them to good use.” He shrugged again. “I just kind of want to fit in more. If my parents were both pureblooded then I don’t want to disappoint them.”

“You aren’t disappointing them,” Sirius said.

“I know,” Harry said, hands back in his pockets, “but I want to know the things they knew…the things they would have taught me if they had raised me.”

Sirius nodded and they walked the rest of the way to Eweforic Alley in silence. The Burning Man was packed this time and they had to push their way through to the men’s room, but fortunately, with Harry’s new haircut, his scar was covered and they received no awkward looks.

They had nearly made it to the first door marked ‘Witches’ when a scuffle broke out in front of them and Harry was knocked backwards into Sirius. They tumbled backwards and his glasses fell off his face. The barman ran up and broke it up quickly, but Harry couldn’t find his glasses again, and when Sirius finally located them, they were crushed.

“Damn it,” Harry said, squinting his eyes. Sirius ushered him through to Eweforic Alley and took Harry’s broken glasses from him.

 _“Reparo,”_ Sirius said once they were in the safety of the wizarding world. Nothing happened and both Sirius and Harry wrinkled their brows in confusion. Sirius pointed his wand closer and repeated the incantation, thinking that perhaps he just hadn’t spoken the incantation correctly, though he seriously doubted it. He’d had to use it often enough on his quills in school, after all.

When it didn’t work a second time, Harry looked up at his godfather questioningly—or at least, he thought he was looking at his godfather. He couldn’t be entirely sure. “Why isn’t it working?”

Sirius shrugged. “How many times have you repaired them?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Harry replied. “A lot.”

Sirius laughed. “You can only repair glass so many times before it’s irreparable. You’ll just have to get new ones.”

Harry scowled. “And you just expect me to stumble around blind until then, do you?”

“There used to be a wizarding optometrist in Eweforic Alley. We could see if they’re still around.”

Harry mumbled a petulant ‘fine’ and trotted off after Sirius, but he only made it a few steps before he stumbled over…something…and fell flat on his face. Sirius guffawed and Harry glared at him the best he could. He stumbled again trying to get up, and Sirius finally found a heart and helped him stand.

“Come on, kiddo,” Sirius said with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be your seeing eye dog.”

“You’re not properly trained,” Harry said, but let himself be led along anyway. He had no idea where or even in which direction they were going, but he did see a few interesting fuzzy blobs on the way. Fortunately, whether or not Sirius was a trained seeing eye dog or not, Harry only ran into one person, and he had a feeling Sirius planned that one anyway. He mumbled a weak ‘sorry!’ and allowed himself to be tugged along.

“Aha!” Sirius proclaimed suddenly, coming to a stop. He snickered when Harry walked into him. “This is it. The Magic Eye.”

Harry grumbled and stumbled inside. They were greeted by a receptionist that Harry thought might be a redhead, but couldn’t be entirely sure as her hair blended into everything around her. Sirius explained the situation because Harry was still pouting, and after some paperwork, they were led back to a private area. A chipper wizard bounced in several minutes later and attacked the situation with the utmost finesse.

“Well then!” he crowed, and Harry winced because he could hear the man, but he couldn’t tell where exactly he was. That was the problem with having three optometrist wizards in front of him due to his shoddy vision. “What seems to be the problem, then?”

“I can’t see,” Harry grumbled at the same time as Sirius said, “The boy can’t see.”

Harry was almost certain that they were both shot a significant look.

“Right then,” the wizard said again. “Have a look at these charts then and tell me what you can see.”

Harry looked. “A big white square with some greyish hieroglyphics.”

The optometrist frowned, but Harry didn’t see that. “What sorts of hieroglyphics?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Can’t read Egyptian.”

“Hmm,” the wizard said. “Those are actually letters written in the Minister’s English.” He pointed his wand at Harry’s face, and Harry would’ve taken on a defensive stance if he was able to see it, but he wasn’t, so he just sat there. He jumped when he felt something tingling in his eyes. “What can you see now, son?” the wizard asked.

Harry looked back at the chart. “English hieroglyphics.” The wizard hummed and cast more spells, and finally, a quarter of an hour later, Harry was able to read the letters on the chart.

“Dreadful eyesight,” the wizard proclaimed seriously. Harry didn’t see a point in denying that, so he stayed quiet, and fortunately, Sirius did too. “The way I see it—and I _do_ ,” he added with a chuckle, “because I’m a wizarding optometrist, you see, you’ve a few options. We’ve got a procedure that would completely correct your vision. It’s complex, but with a high success rate. There is a week of recovery for it afterwards, however.

“Or,” he continued, “we could give you wizarding correction lenses. They’re similar to muggle contact lenses, only instead of a synthetic lens fitted over the eye, it’s a temporary spell that creates a magical lens. The spell lasts for six months at which point you would have to return to have it renewed.

“Lastly—we could just fit you for another set of glasses.” The wizard shrugged, and since he hadn’t yet removed the last spell on Harry’s eyes, Harry could see him do it. Harry looked at Sirius.

“I’m used to wearing glasses.”

“Your choice, kiddo,” Sirius said with a shrug. “Any would be fine with me, only it would be a little difficult for us to work around the permanent procedure right now—that is if you want to be able to see on your birthday, of course.

“If you just like wearing glasses,” the optometrist spoke up, “we’ve got another option. We could fit you for both the correction spell and the glasses. You could wear your glasses whenever you wanted, and if you ever lost them or broke them, the lenses would adjust accordingly. You would be able to see with or without the glasses.”

Harry and Sirius agreed to that, but the only problem was that Harry’s old glasses were so horribly out of style, that they didn’t even make them anymore—or indeed anything even remotely similar. In the end, Harry accepted a pair of non-descript glasses that were nearly indestructible. They even adjusted in bright light to protect from the sun.

When Harry could see again, Sirius paid and they headed to the other end of Eweforic Alley, passing the various shops selling everything from ice-cream to coffee to pets to kitchenware, to buy something appropriate for dinner with the Smiths. Harry wasn’t very excited about that.

But he _was_ excited about hearing what Sirius had to say about wizarding wear. He’d always just worn muggle clothes under his robes, but was intrigued to learn that many wizarding families, not just the posh ones like the Malfoys, still dressed in a hodgepodge of styles varying from Regency to Victorian to, even, French Renaissance. And that included the waistcoats, cravats and half-length trousers with leather boots. He was so unfamiliar with it all since they wore uniforms at school, and not only that, but these styles apparently changed with the season.

Harry didn’t know how he felt about that. Apparently, Sirius was one of those wizards who grew up dressing like that, and when they entered the first clothier and were spotted by a woman in a whale-bone bodice, he became a little scared. Just what exactly had he agreed to when he said he’d allow Sirius to buy him something to wear to dinner?

“I draw the line at codpieces,” he warned his godfather as they entered. Sirius snorted and shook his head.

“There’ll be none of those. A lot of this is only worn for formal occasions. Day to day wear for women still includes the skirts and bodices, but men generally wear tunics and trousers.”

“What about blue jeans?” Harry asked. He could not see himself running around like a pirate every day.

Sirius shrugged, “You won’t see the Smiths or the Malfoys in blue jeans, but I don’t really care what you wear normally.”

Harry scowled. “Like I want to be like either of them,” but he didn’t get a chance to say anything more because the bodice-clad shopkeeper had grown impatient and bustled over to see to them.

“How are you lads today then?” she asked, her Scottish brogue thick. “What can I do for you?”

“Formal dinner,” Sirius answered promptly, surprising Harry when he dropped into a haughty, almost Malfoy-ish drawl. Harry furrowed his brows, quite confused, and wondered if all the old ‘Noble’ houses were prone to doing this. There was certainly a lot to his godfather that he didn’t know. “With a Scottish noble house.”

The shopkeeper nodded understandingly—even though Harry was still confused—and hurried them over to the fitting area. Harry climbed up onto the stool and sighed. Maybe if she just let his mind wander off, it would be over sooner. No such luck.

He was poked and prodded and even stuck with pins a couple times and it was impossible to forget where he was. In the end, he just watched the shopkeeper lace him up in leather trousers, tunics, waistcoats, cravats, boots and other things that he didn’t even know the name for. Sirius was getting the same treatment, but seemed to be less irritated by it.

“Green—to go with your eyes, I think,” the shopkeeper said, as she was studying two different frock coats.

Harry looked up. One was blue and one was green, but they both had too much lace for Harry’s taste. “I don’t like either of those.” He nodded towards another frock coat in navy-on-black stripes with six silver buttons up the front, navy embroidery along the hems and no frills on the rest of it. “I like that one.”

She snorted, gesturing to his rust-and-navy striped trousers and tan waistcoat. “Those are different eras. You’re wearing a Victorian-influenced ensemble and the frock coat is a Regency Regingote.”

Harry didn’t know the difference, nor did he care, so he just glared.

“It’s just dinner. He can do without the coat, but wrap up the other one for him, anyway, if he likes it,” Sirius told the woman. She looked to Harry for confirmation and he nodded because he really did like it. It was kind of interesting and way better than the raggedy old coats he usually wore in winter beneath his cloaks.

Sirius talked him into picking up a couple of new shirts and trousers for school, and some adamantine-toed boots in both brown and black that could not only kick the shit out of someone, but were also silent at all times—not a sound, even running across broken glass or dry leaves. Those would hopefully prove useful in the fight against Voldemort, whenever their ceasefire ended. Finally, they were done.

The packages were sent on to the house, but Harry insisted on wearing the new coat and boots home. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he loved them and they looked fetching with his blue jeans. It was late afternoon when they got back, and Sirius immediately ushered Harry up the stairs to change.

Ginger was delirious with preparations and ignored both of them while Fred sent them apologetic looks and offered to iron his hands for the both of them. At seven, everything was ready—including Harry—and he and Sirius were waiting in the antechamber for the arrival of the Smiths.

  


They flooed in right on time, and a flurry of welcomes and thank yous were passed around the adults as Zacharias studied Harry and Harry studied him back.

“Smith,” he said flatly.

Zacharias nodded. “Potter.” He raked his eyes down Harry’s form. “You’re looking well.”

Harry snorted. He hadn’t believed it at first, but Sirius was right. The Smiths looked straight out of a fairy-tale with their clothes. Zacharias was dressed similarly, but wasn’t fidgeting in the clothes; he was obviously more comfortable in them. Harry really wished he was wearing robes.

They went to the parlour for pre-dinner drinks and exchanged pleasantries, where Yasmin explained that she worked for the Department of Wizarding Education in the Ministry. Ginger called them in for dinner at half seven. Sirius was an amazing host and Harry was surprised to see this other side of his mangy godfather.

“So, Harry,” Yasmin Smith spoke up during the salad course. Harry looked up at her and tried to smile, despite how much he didn’t like her son. “Zacharias tells us that you were raised by muggles. How do you find living in the wizarding world different from the muggle world?”

Harry had expected her to ask how he liked muggles in general or how he liked his relatives. He hadn’t expected a genuinely curious question from her, and was put off guard by it. But he refused to make himself look like a fool by ‘umming’ and ‘erring’ through an answer so he collected his thoughts before he replied.

“Muggles make up for their lack of magic rather well, I think,” he said. She nodded and smiled so he continued. “Instead of candles, they have electricity, which is basically energy. A lot like magic, actually. It’s somewhat like contained lightning. Muggles use that for a lot of the things wizards just wave a wand for. It’s more complicated, but gets similar results. I suppose, to answer your question, the only difference is that muggles have to work harder to get what we get with a wave of a wand.”

“That’s very interesting, Harry,” Xavier Smith spoke up. “Would you say that muggles are coping with their lack of magic admirably?”

“I would,” Harry agreed. “Actually, the human body—well, at least the muggle human body—works on electricity. All of our senses are powered by internal electricity, so I suppose that’s how they were able to learn so much about the way their bodies work—by studying their environment, I mean.”

All of the adults looked thoughtful. Finally, Xavier spoke up again. “That’s a very interesting theory. I wonder if it’s the same with wizards—this e-lek-trisity, I mean.”

There was a pregnant silence while the adults mulled over this until Yasmin broke it by complimenting Sirius on the décor of the formal dining room, and Harry sighed in relief, glad that the attention was no longer focused on him.

“What are you taking this year, Potter?” Zacharias asked some time later.

Harry looked up. “Classes, you mean?” Zacharias nodded. “Advanced Transfigurations, Charms, DADA and Potions, and Beginning Arithmancy.”

Zacharias nodded thoughtfully, as if he might actually care. “I’ve got all of those except Potions. I’m taking Divination and History of Magic instead.”

Harry shuddered. “I’m so glad I’m out of those two classes. I wish I could get out of Potions, too, but I need it if I want to become an Auror.”

Zacharias chuckled and took a sip of his sparkling water. “So the rumours are true, then? You’re going to be an Auror?”

Harry shrugged. “Unless something better comes along.”

After dinner, the adults retreated back into the parlour for even more drinks and Harry was forced to entertain Zacharias further. He hadn’t been acting like such a git tonight, but Harry still wasn’t happy about it. They went out to the veranda and played a few games of Exploding Snap while Harry tried to think of something to talk about.

He couldn’t. His mind was entirely focused on something else.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 1st page.

>   
>  _1 January, 845_
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _It has been seven days since your passing._
> 
> _The others insist that your death remain secret so as not to cause fear. They declared that you have gone out to search for allies in the moors and fens. I try to smile encouragingly when they do so, and wish you luck on your trip. It is difficult._
> 
> _It is such a frightening time for all of us, and your death will only frighten the young ones more. We spend our nights, as I am sure you remember, hidden away in our beds—sleeping, always, with one eye opened. The muggles are close—we can feel them as we never could before…you. Before any of that happened._
> 
> _Our magic is the only thing that separates us, so why are we tormented so? A woman from the village—Marilyn Meriwether, you remember her—has a son who should have begun Hogwarts this fall. He will not; he has shown no signs of magic. How will he survive? He knows nothing of muggles and nothing of magic. He’s alone in this world and we fear for him._
> 
> _Leo mourns you still, though he is stubborn and refuses to admit it so. He remembers the bickering between you, and I think it soothes his soul sometimes. I find him in the kitchens on occasion sipping tea with his hair tangled and flowing about his face as if he has not washed in days. I do not approach him yet, as he roared at the Nag so fiercely when she did that I felt it in my own best interests to give him space. I think he mourns you nearly as much as I do._
> 
> _And she has not badgered him since._
> 
> _I, however, Beloved, have spent the last seven days mourning as a proper witch should, and refuse to mourn longer. Why should I, when in fact, you will not remain dead? I smile as I write this because I know it true. I will find a way, Beloved. I will—if not for you or me, then for your son, who even now grows in my womb._
> 
> _You will see him one day soon, and you will know he is yours. He will look just like you, of that I am sure._
> 
> _Love always,  
>  R_

ɤɣɤ

Later that night, Harry thought. The conversation at dinner with the Smiths had created more questions than answers. He hadn’t even been thinking about what he was saying at the time, but now that he did, he was curious.

Did wizards’ bodies work with electricity or with magic? Hermione had told him once that without their magic, most wizards died. During the reign of Grindelwald, a lot of wizards were executed by stripping them of their magic. It was barbaric, but it worked.

So, if muggles couldn’t live without the electricity in their bodies and wizards couldn’t live without the magic in their bodies, then did that just mean that instead of electricity, wizard bodies were powered on magic? Harry decided to ask the one person who might have looked into such a thing, and called out to Voldemort with his mind.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Voldemort answered thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’ve never even thought of anything like that before. I never had much of a muggle education, so I was unaware that their bodies did indeed work with electricity.”

“Do you suppose,” Harry asked slowly as he sipped his tasteless, texture-less tea, “that magic is really just another form of energy like electricity?”

“Magic is certainly a form of energy,” Voldemort answered in an almost lecturing tone. “The question is, on what wavelength does magic work? How dissimilar is it to electricity?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know, but I was thinking that it might be like blood types.”

Voldemort looked at him, red eyes blinking in confusion. “You know—people have all sorts of different blood types, but it’s not hereditary,” Harry continued. “Sometimes mothers have A+ type blood and their baby will have AB- even though the baby is made with the mother and father’s DNA.” Harry shrugged. “Or some other variation, you know.”

Voldemort was still quiet, so Harry kept talking, not even really thinking about what he was saying, but trying to get all of his ideas out at once. “I mean, what if that’s the reason that squibs are born? What if, instead of having magical energy like their parents, they have electrical energy?”

“If that were the case,” Voldemort said slowly, “I would expect that is the same with mudbloods.” Harry glared. “Muggleborn, then,” Voldemort corrected carelessly.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe.”

“That’s a very interesting theory, Potter.” And Harry snorted because he’d heard that once already that day. “What could we do with this information, supposing it’s correct?” Voldemort mused to himself. Nagini was on his lap and he was stroking her head as he thought.

Harry shrugged again, as he seemed to do that a lot around Voldemort. “I don’t know,” he said somewhat. “Could we adjust energy wavelengths to give squibs magic.”

Voldemort stared at him sharply. “Do you think?”

“No,” Harry said. “I don’t think it would be possible. It’s just a theory.”

Voldemort hummed noncommittally and changed the subject, although the new one was not much better. “Have you just now hit puberty, Potter?”

“What?” Harry said indignantly.

“Puberty, Potter,” Voldemort said with all the patience of a monk. “You look different. I can’t put my finger on what.”

“I got a haircut,” Harry said.

Voldemort shook his head. “No, no—that’s not it, although I do like the yellow. It looks like bile dripping from your hair.” Harry grimaced. “Your face looks a different. More defined, I’d say. Sharper.”

Harry scowled. “I hate to disappoint you, but I suffered through puberty years ago.”

Voldemort gave the equivalent of a shrug. “I believe I’m losing you, Potter,” he nodded towards Harry’s fingers which were indeed beginning to flicker in and out of existence.

“You never had me,” Harry said, right before he faded completely.

ɤɣɤ

The next morning, Harry received a letter from Snape.

And if that wasn’t not only unheard of, but also unwelcome, the reasoning for the letter _was_. Snape, on Dumbledore’s orders, was coming for a visit. Harry, eyes wide and jaw hanging to the floor, stared at the letter for several minutes in stunned silence. It was as curt and impolite as usual, but Harry could have handled that if only the last line hadn’t read, _‘Headmaster Dumbledore has asked that I stop by to check on your progress. As much as it pains me, I cannot refuse a direct order, and thus, shall arrive at ten a.m. sharp.’_

“I can’t believe this!” Sirius growled, snatching the letter from Harry’s hands to read it for himself. “Of all the nerve, to send Snivellus to check up on my god-parenting skills!”

Harry looked up at the clock on the far wall. It was five minutes until ten. “Bollocks,” he said. “He’s going to be here in five minutes.”

Sirius stomped out of the kitchen, growling and muttering to himself along the way. Harry looked up at the clock again—two minutes. How did time go by so quickly when Snape was coming? With deliberate slowness, he made his way to the antechamber to receive Snape. Snape was punctual as usual.

“Potter,” he said curtly, dusting himself off from the floo. Harry nodded.

“Professor.”

Snape shot him a glare. “Where’s your mutt of a godfather?” he asked.

Harry scowled. “He didn’t wish to see you.”

Snape came very close to smirking, Harry could tell. “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.” He looked around the antechamber in distaste and then turned back to Harry. “Are you not going to invite me to sit?”

Harry rolled his eyes once he’d turned away. “Of course,” he said, and led Snape to the parlour, where he flopped down on the divan and gestured for Snape to sit wherever he liked. Snape chose the armchair directly across from him.

“Professor, you didn’t tell me Sirius was alive,” Harry said, trying to keep the accusation from his voice. They still weren’t on great terms, and as Harry didn’t take Occlumency with Snape anymore, they only saw each other in class—which was just fine with both of them.

“I wasn’t aware,” Snape simply.

Harry, quite sure that Snape would have told him it was none of his business, was thrown. “Really?” he asked instead, feeling lucky.

Snape smiled sardonically—it was truly a gruesome sight—and settled back into his chair. Harry, more confused than before, watched him warily. “If you should truly like to know—and I imagine that being a Gryffindor,” he sneered, “you should—then I shall tell you that Headmaster Dumbledore works in mysterious ways.”

“Isn’t God the one who’s supposed to work in mysterious ways?” Harry asked, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. Honestly, wizards sometimes.

“Ah, you refer to the muggle God. I am aware of the notion. Given than definition, who is to say that Albus Dumbledore is not him?” Snape countered with a raised eyebrow. “Certainly, many wizards like to think of him as such.”

Before the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries, Harry would have been highly offended at that, but now, he could only manage annoyance. But Snape, ever the Slytherin, had still not answered Harry’s question. “Didn’t Dumbledore know?”

“He did not know that Black was alive, no,” said Snape.

“Then who died in the Department of Mysteries?”

Snape gave the equivalent of a shrug and changed the subject. “I am here to assess whether or not you are safe and happy,” he said with a sneer, “and that you are maintaining your studies.”

Harry noticed the evasion and decided not to press his luck. “I’m happy. I’m pretty sure I’m safe, and there’s a three-storey library at my disposal.”

“But are you utilizing it?” Snape asked. Harry nodded, remembering the odd skin-bound book he’d found the week before. “Very well, Potter. I shall give my report to the Headmaster post haste.” He stood and walked over to the parlour window where down below Sirius could be seen in Padfoot form fighting over the body of a gnome with Fred. Harry followed him over and looked out as well.

“Were you aware, Potter,” Snape said quietly, “that the more that is taken from an animal, the more they will fight to keep what they have? Certainly, it’s not merely restricted to animals—humans are the same way. They fight for what is theirs.”

He turned, nodded curtly to Harry, and exited the room. “I shall see myself out,” he called from the hallway; Harry nodded dumbly, still staring down at Sirius in the garden and wondering if Snape was answering his earlier question or just spouting trivia.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magic Eyes are those posters and calendars that show pictures if you stare at them the right way. They’re made by creating a greyscale 2D picture and then overlaying a complex algorithmic pattern. To see them, you have to put them up to your nose and focus as if you were staring into the distance. Then you slowly pull your face away and, if you’ve focused correctly, the underlayed picture will appear.


	4. Black, Arcturus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 04/27/11.

  


By the day before Harry’s seventeenth birthday, Sirius had forgotten about Snape’s visit, but it was still fresh on Harry’s mind. He thought about Snape’s parting words over and over and over until he finally worked himself into a furious rage, headed out to the gardens, and started hexing and jinxing anything and everything in sight.

Surely, Snape had not meant that Dumbledore allowed things and people Harry loved to be taken away from him so he would fight harder to defeat Voldemort...right? Snape could have been trying to wind him up, but Harry wasn’t so sure anymore.

That was how Sirius found him that afternoon. Harry was back in a t-shirt and jeans and hexing everything from a few straggling garden gnomes to Fred’s prized flower beds. Off to the side, Fred was wringing his hands and grumbling, but refused to step in to save his flowers.

Sirius walked up to Harry and watched, unseen, for several minutes before he shrugged and pulled out his own wand. No reason to turn down a perfectly good gnome-elimination opportunity. He spoke an incantation under his breath, and an unsuspecting garden gnome imploded. Harry stopped, suddenly, and watched.

“That’s dark magic,” Harru said.

“No it’s not,” said Sirius. “It’s a house-cleaning charm—a variant of the vanishing charm that we used to use in school to get rid of suspicious evidence after pranks.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “It certainly looks like dark magic.”

Sirius shook his head. “Anything is dark magic if you want it to be. You light your fireplaces with _Incendio_ , but what do you think would happen if you cast it on another person?” He shrugged. “It’s not the magic, it’s the intent.”

“But you _intended_ to hurt the garden gnome with that spell,” Harry insisted.

“Actually,” Sirius said, “I intended to utterly annihilate it.”

“So, you’re telling me that I could use _Avada Kedavra_ and it wouldn’t be dark?” he asked, sarcasm evident in his tone.

“Sure,” Sirius said. “How do you think they slaughter livestock for your Hogwarts feasts? The Ministry grants licenses to wizard shepherds. There’s a lot of paperwork involved, I understand, but,” he shrugged, “they still use it. It’s better than gutting them with ritual daggers, don’t you think?”

“But that’s different,” Harry insisted.

“How?” Sirius asked.

Harry didn’t have an answer for that, so he just flopped down on the grass and stared at the spot where the unfortunate garden gnome had been. He wondered if there was a special plane of existence where all imploded and Vanished things went. There was probably a whole planet somewhere made out of Vanished and Imploded objects. Sirius sat down next to him with his arms draped over his knees and his wand dangling from his fingertips.

“How often do you actually use Ministry-classified dark magic?” Harry asked after several minutes.

“Well, Remus let me use his wand for a couple beheading hexes and a perpetual fire charm when I was still staying in that cave outside Hogsmeade,” he said with a shrug. Harry gaped at him.

“I was hungry!” Sirius insisted. “They were rabbits—already dead, anyway. I snapped their necks when I caught them. I just couldn’t stand to eat them with their heads on looking at me, so I cut them off.”

“That’s vile.”

Sirius laughed. “I suppose maybe to you, but I grew up with beheading hexes, you understand. My dad took Regulus and me camping sometimes, and he always made us take care of our own meals. It was part of the adventure. I wasn’t an animagus then, so we had to stun them and then behead them just to kill them.”

“Why didn’t you use _Avada Kedavra_?” Harry asked.

“We were seven or eight years old, kiddo,” Sirius said with a laugh. “We weren’t magically strong enough to cast that yet. We didn’t learn the Killing Curse until we were ten.”

“Didn’t you have the Underage Use of Magic statute back then?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, of course,” Sirius answered. “That’s been around since the 1940s when some halfwit muggleborn kids decided they were going to show all their parents’ friends how they could levitate automobiles. Pureblood kids, though, sometimes got to use their parents’ wands—which in a lot of cases have the Ministry Magic Regulators removed.”

“What happened to those muggleborn kids that levitated the cars?”

Sirius flopped back on the grass, hands behind his head. “If I remember correctly, they were expelled and their magic was permanently bound. The muggleborn kids already had statutes for using magic outside of the wizarding world, but they said it was discrimination and the autos were part of their revolt.”

“This happened in America, you understand. The people over there get a bit riled up sometimes. The muggleborns all did it at the same time—there was probably a couple hundred of them across the country. The American Aurors were flooded for months trying to straighten that out. _Obliviations_ and charming of newspapers and what not. It was a bureaucratic nightmare for them, and they made an example out of the wizards involved. And so, there you have the reasoning behind the underage magic usage clause.”

Harry’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wasn’t that a little harsh? To bind their magic forever?”

Sirius shrugged again, still lying on the grass. “Not really. They were lucky they didn’t serve time in Kiljoy—that’s the American prison—and let me tell you, they may keep their Dementors on a tighter reign over there, but that doesn’t mean they don’t make up for it in other ways. That place is quite possibly the literal incarnation of muggle hell.”

“But they were kids!” Harry insisted.

Sirius shrugged. “And they used massive amounts of magic in front of huge groups of muggles all across the American east coast, and it was caught on camera and published in their newspapers, and muggles were already riling themselves up for a witch hunt. It’s illegal.”

Sirius looked at him intently. “You’ve got to understand that more than two-thousand muggles were exposed to magic. The magical communities of countries all over the world were calling for the binding of all muggleborn children, and the United Wizarding Nations almost agreed to it. It was close for a while. The only thing that stopped it was when the French Minister reminded them that without muggleborn children, new bloodlines wouldn’t form.”

Harry lay down next to Sirius and stared up at the clouds, thinking. “Is that why purebloods hate muggleborns so much?” he asked.

“Part of it,” Sirius agreed. “It’s still fresh in a lot of minds, you know.”

Harry hummed in reply. He had a lot to think about.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 47th page.  


>   
>  __  
> 11 June, 845
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _Your son was born today. I am still weary, but I felt you should know immediately. If you were here, I know you would be blissful._
> 
> _He is beautiful, and looks just like you as I have told you he would. He is small and pink and his eyes are wise even now. Like you, Beloved. He will be like you. I have named him Samuel because I know that you have always hated common names and I was feeling vindictive and amused this afternoon._
> 
> _I will call him Sam, a name even more common, and I hope that you roll in your grave over it. Perhaps it will convince you to return to me sooner, if only to scold me and call for a renaming ceremony._
> 
> _The Nag laughs as I write this. She has been badgering me to keep still these last months and I have evaded her each time. I no longer have an excuse to keep still and she no longer has an excuse to nag me, though I know she does it lovingly. She is like a mother hen without chicks—stealing ducklings and other small fowl to care for instead._
> 
> _The muggles have not yet retreated. No one has left the wards of the village, and I do not believe that they will anytime soon. A man has moved to the village. He is a necromancer and he has given me something new to ponder—as I have nothing else to occupy my time with now except for your son._
> 
> _It was decided that the muggle-born children will not be admitted to school this year, so classes at Hogwarts will be much smaller; my time will be more plentiful as a result. I will leave you to growl in your death while I contemplate this necromancer and his theories._
> 
> _Yours, spitefully,  
>  R._

ɤɣɤ

Other than the after-breakfast conversation with Sirius in the garden, it had been a wonderful day, and when Harry found himself yet again in half-corporeal form in Voldemort’s study the night before his birthday, he couldn’t be arsed to be irritated about it.

He had tried to stay up until midnight to count down, but he was so remarkably tired from all the spell work he’d done—Sirius was teaching him as Harry had asked the week before—that he’d fallen asleep shortly after ten, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Voldemort might be an insomniac.

For the past few weeks, every time Harry had arrived, Voldemort had seemed to be deep in thought—as if he were worried about something, and this time was no different. Voldemort was again standing at the window—one scaly, white hand absently petting Nagini as he muttered in Parseltongue. Harry couldn’t pick out the words from that distance, but he didn’t think they would be anything good.

He didn’t say anything this time, and instead occupied himself with wandering around the sitting room, studying the titles of the books on the shelves and magical maps that were tacked along the dark panelled walls.

“Where are we?” he asked, after a moment. Voldemort spun around, surprised, and narrowed his eyes.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to not only sneak up on some one, but also to pilfer through their belongings while you do?” he snarled.

Harry winced; Voldemort was obviously not in a charitable mood—as if he ever was, really. He gave him a sheepish look, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes further, but seemed to accept it as some sort of apology. It wasn’t as if Harry would ever actually apologize to Voldemort for anything, so it was all he would get.

“Ard-Mhéara,” Voldemort answered curtly.

“What?” Harry asked, forgetting his previous question. Voldemort’s anger tended to put all other thoughts out of his mind.

“We’re in Ard-Mhéara, the Riddle house,” Voldemort said again.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, and scanned several more book titles. “I thought your father was a muggle,” he said, ignoring the continued narrowing of the Dark Lord’s red eyes. “I’m just saying that I didn’t think there would _be_ a Riddle house, you know. Don’t get defensive about it.”

“Ah,” Voldemort nodded understandingly. He walked over to the chair near the fireplace, and the house elf popped in with their tea. The Dark Lord poured it while Nagini curled up in his lap. “There wasn’t originally. This used to be the family home of one of my ancestors, many generations back. I renamed it when I was younger—hoping to establish my own line. That never worked out, as you can see,” he added.

Harry watched as Voldemort added two sugars, no cream and a large dose of cyanide to his tea before he accepted. At first, he’d been slightly offended, but then realised that if he were Voldemort, he’d be poisoning his tea, too, and now it was only slightly frightening instead of utterly terrifying.

“Thank you,” he said, taking his tea. Voldemort merely looked at him.

“Are you finally interested in wizarding heritages, then?” the Dark Lord asked after a few silent moments. Before Harry could answer, Nagini hissed that she would be out hunting, and after a nod from Voldemort, slithered off his lap. Harry stared at her retreating form for several seconds before he finally spoke.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “It’s just that, last month, I found out that my mother wasn’t muggleborn. It just kind of made me wonder about my own history.” He shrugged and stared down at his tea cup. It was a gaudy little thing. The tea sets never matched from visit to visit, but they were always a set, except for the one Voldemort used, and Voldemort’s was always the hideous gilded one.

“Your mother was not British.” It was not a question, but Harry looked up with a question of his own in his eyes. Voldemort continued casually. “American, if I recall. Younger daughter of a former New England Minister of Magic. The Evans family migrated from New York City to Manchester in the late sixties. Assassinated, though the assassin was never found, nor was it ever even determined—or at least, released to the public—whether it was by muggle or wizarding means. The case was closed a mere five days after it was opened.” His tone was bored.

“How do you know that?” Harry asked in a faint voice.

Voldemort shrugged. “I know a lot of things.” His red eyes bore into Harry’s, and he said, “Such as, I know that you are staying with your godfather—believed dead—near Glasgow.”

“Edinburgh,” Harry automatically corrected, though he wasn’t entirely sure exactly how far away from Glasgow River House was.

Voldemort smiled triumphantly. “You would do best to learn not to give away such information to an enemy.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “You tricked me.” Voldemort smiled. “But…you knew anyway; you were just trying to see what I would admit if you caught me off guard.”

“Perhaps,” Voldemort said.

“Why haven’t you come for me yet then? You could have caught me completely unaware.”

“Who says I haven’t?” Voldemort asked.

Harry was getting frantic by now. He wasn’t sure if Voldemort was serious or not. He knew entirely too much and Harry knew entirely too little. “Have you?” he finally asked, breathing heavily, even though it wasn’t necessary to breath at all. He could almost feel a heartbeat—beating frantically in his chest, and knew it could only be his own heartbeat back at River House.

Voldemort studied him for several minutes, and the longer he did, the more panicked Harry became. Finally, he answered, “Me? No,” and before Harry could blurt out ‘why not?’ the subject was abruptly changed. “Heritage is a wonderful thing, Potter,” he said, taking another sip of his tea. “Perhaps you should look into yours more thoroughly.”

Harry nodded dumbly, and looked down at the dregs of his tea. His fingers started flickering again, and he knew that the shock of what Voldemort had just told him was bringing him back to his body.

“You will be seventeen tomorrow, will you not?” Voldemort asked, eyeing Harry’s wavering form. Harry nodded, stunned and confused, and Voldemort sent him a manic grin. “Your coming of age…it deserves a celebration. Check the papers tomorrow,” Voldemort said.

“Why?” Harry asked, anxiously. Voldemort grinned evilly again.

“A birthday gift for you.”

Harry, though incredibly frightened of what that could be, could hold on no longer, and he slipped away. He had nightmares the rest of the night.

ɤɣɤ

Breakfast was waiting for Harry when he stumbled down the stairs, still in his pyjamas, the next morning.

“Happy birthday, kiddo!” Sirius said. He was partially hidden by a table piled high with pancakes, owls and presents. He, Ginger and Fred were all wearing little wizard hats with sparkling pom-poms on the top and confetti was falling from the ceiling like a perpetual snow-globe that didn’t need shaking. There was a banner hanging in front of the window with ‘Sweet Seventeen’ rolling across like a marquee of girly, pink letters. Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“Cheers,” he said, somewhat shyly. He’d never had a birthday party of any sort before and even if this one only included his godfather and two house-elves, it was much better than any birthday before. At least he wouldn’t be doing chores today. Or at least, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be.

“Sit down, sit down!” Sirius exclaimed, motioning to the huge stack of pancakes. They were covered in strawberries and blueberries and whipped cream in every colour except white. Sirius waved his wand and seventeen candles appeared on top of the stack of pancakes. “Come on, then. Blow them out.”

Harry did, and since he couldn’t think of anything better to wish for, as he wasn’t exactly wanting for anything, he wished that staying with Sirius could be permanent, that they could finally be a real family. Silly, but he didn’t care. No one would know. All of the candles went out, and he laughed before helping himself to some pancakes. It wasn’t exactly a traditional birthday cake, but he’d never had one of those either and the pancakes were really good, anyway. He told Ginger so and she preened.

Afterwards, when Harry was on his third pancake and Sirius couldn’t wait any longer for fear of exploding with excitement, a brightly wrapped package was thrust into his hand. “Open it!” Sirius grinned. Harry looked down at the tag: Happy Birthday, Harry, Love Sirius. He ripped into the paper and grinned.

“Thanks,” he said excitedly. It was a book on defensive magic. Several more packages like this were thrust at him, all with tags reading, respectively: Love, your godfather; Love Snuffles and Love, Padfoot. He got books on all sorts of different magics and even one on proper wizarding etiquette, which he cuffed Sirius for.

There was another package left—a big one wrapped in paper that had little pirate ships that floated around on it, and he struggled as it was thrust into his hands. It was heavy. Sirius sat back with a smug grin, and watched.

He blushed and laughed when he finally looked inside. There were dozens upon dozens of wizarding porn videos inside, all recorded on the brand new ‘floo disk’ magic, which, when tossed into a magical fireplace, displayed a movie as they burned down. They were, unfortunately, one use only. “Sirius!” he exclaimed, embarrassed. Sirius guffawed with laughter and pointed inside.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he explained with a grin, “So I got you a little bit of everything. There’s everything from regular boy-girl sex to boy-boy sex to girl-girl sex to boy-girl-boy to boy-inanimate object to animals,” here, Harry cringed, “to fetishes to kinks to BDSM to cuddling in that box.”

Harry laughed and pulled out _Boys With Two Wands_ which looked to be worth watching if only for gruesome curiosity, and said, “You’re supposed to be acting like a parental figure. You can’t give me porn.” Secretly, though, he was delighted. There was more boy-boy than anything else, he quickly noticed.

Sirius laughed. “You said you wanted it,” he said, very unrepentant. There was several more minutes of embarrassed laughing, but Sirius seemed to remember something, and he sobered.

“What’s wrong?” asked Harry.

Sirius fumbled in his pocket. “I have one more present for you,” he said, holding out a small, plain box. There was no tag on this one.

“What is it?” he asked. Sirius said nothing. Slowly, Harry flipped the lid open and stared in confusion. “It’s a ring,” he said dumbly. It was pretty, he supposed, but it was a little bit…feminine…for his tastes. The band was white gold and there was a delicate collection of emeralds and set in it. He stared at it in confusion, hoping this wasn’t another wizarding thing and that all pureblooded male wizards wore women’s jewellery.

“Yeah,” Sirius said quietly. “It was your mother’s wedding ring. I took it off her finger, you know…that night. I figured I’d give it to you someday. Today seemed a good day, I guess. It’s been sitting in my vault this whole time.”

Harry stared at it for several long minutes before he slipped it on the little finger on his right hand. He thought that he could almost feel his mother wearing it as it touched his skin. He felt warmer, and didn’t really give a damn about wearing women’s jewellery anymore.

“Thank you,” he said. Sirius coughed and motioned to the owls gathered impatiently around the table.

“You have some letters, too—from your friends, I think.” Harry smiled, grateful for the distraction and beckoned Hedwig over to him first. She had a letter and a small package, which Harry opened before reaching for the letter. It was from Hermione and she’d given him a book on French ritual magic. He supposed that he would be able to start his own library after this summer.

After he took the letter from Hedwig, she nipped his fingers gently and jumped off to the other side of the table where some bacon was sitting in a platter.  


>   
>  _  
> Dear Harry,_
> 
> _How are you? I just got back from France this evening with my parents. It was lovely, and so educational. We saw the Eiffel Tower again, which never ceases to be amazing. I’ve enclosed some pictures I took from the top for you. They’re muggle pictures, but I think you’ll agree that the view is still incredible._
> 
> _How has your summer been? I hope that your relatives haven’t been treating you too badly. I’ll probably see you at the Burrow later this summer, and we can catch up, but Hedwig’s just arrived, so I better send this off now._
> 
> _Love, Hermione_

So his friends didn’t know he wasn’t at the Dursley’s anymore? He was nearly certain that Dumbledore would’ve informed the Order, but he supposed they hadn’t. He probably would’ve received some sort of panicked letter from Ron if he had—asking him what he was doing staying with a Death Eater impersonating his godfather.

It was then that he realised that he’d neglected to write either of his friends all summer and that they were probably going to think him insane when he finally did. That was okay; he’d thought himself insane for a while, too.

The next owl was Pigwidgeon from Ron and Ginny, and included a huge sack of Chocolate Frogs along with a similar letter. Ron had been spending most of his time practicing for Quidditch and Ginny had been helping the twins out at the shop, but neither of them mentioned anything about Sirius or him not being at his relatives’ house.

The twins sent him a box of things from their shop and new products that they were hoping he would consent to testing. Harry laughed; he really hadn’t expected anything else.

And then, a thought occurred to him, and Harry looked back up at his godfather. “Have you read the paper this morning?” he asked.

Sirius shook his head. “Nah—I don’t take the paper. It’s just a gossip rag,” he said, but as if on cue, Errol, the Weasley’s other, older owl flew in and landed right in the middle of the left-over pancakes. Tired as he was, Errol was determined, and he pulled himself up from the pancakes with an owlish huff. He staggered over to Harry and held his leg out triumphantly, if wobbly.

Harry untied the parchment and as he unrolled it, a newspaper clipping fell out. He felt his heart starting to beat much faster; Ron would never go against Dumbledore’s wishes and send Harry news if it wasn’t extremely important.

With shaking hands, he opened the letter. It wasn’t much, but it was written in an excited scrawl that Harry recognized immediately.  


> _Harry, Thought you might want to read this. Happy birthday, mate. I’m always here for you if you want to talk. Ron_

Harry was even more nervous than before now. What happened? Voldemort had warned him the night before that something big would be in the paper today, but if it was important enough for Ron to go all wishy washy on him like that, then it couldn’t be good. He picked up the article clipping and gaped.  
****__

>   
>  Surprising Confession from Peter Pettigrew

  
[London] – Last night, 30 July, we here at the Daily Prophet _received a floo call from the Ministry offering us breaking news to pass on to our loyal readers._

 _According to contacts at the Ministry, the story associated with Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, that we have all assumed true for the past sixteen years (The_ Daily Prophet _gave the exclusive story 1 November 1981—see:_ ‘Death Eater Attack on the Potters: The-Boy-Who-Lived!’ _) was not true at all!_

_Sirius Black, accused of betrayal of the Potters and murdering twelve muggles was proclaimed innocent last night after an impromptu questioning under Veritaserum revealed that Sirius Black was, in fact, not the Potters’ secret keeper and could not have given their location to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

_Under Veritaserum, Peter Pettigrew, a former friend of James Potter and Sirius Black, and believed dead for the past sixteen years, confessed to not only being the secret keeper of the Potters, but also to framing one-time friend Sirius Black in the horrifying confrontation 2 November 1981 that resulted in the deaths of a dozen innocent muggle bystanders._

_According to Auror Valeria Gaffing, who answered a breaking and entering call at the Ministry, Pettigrew was found waiting at the Ministry Reception area twiddling his thumbs. He claimed to have important information and requested, personally, to be given Ministry-quality Veritaserum._

_Pettigrew was apprehended and currently awaits sentencing in a Ministry holding cell. The sentencing is scheduled for this Friday and is not open to the public._

_The Ministry has ordered that Mr Black be compensated for his wrongful imprisonment (see our story on page 11:_ ‘Sirius Black Settlement’ _) of twelve years and that all estates and funds previously frozen be released immediately._

 _While we here at the_ Daily Prophet _applaud Mr Black for his stoic resolve and determination all those years ago regarding his innocence, we wonder why Mr Black was sent to Azkaban without trial to begin with. When asked about this, Ministry representatives refused comment._

 _After a bit of research, this reporter also discovered that Mr Black was named Harry Potter’s godfather at Mr Potter’s birth. We here at the_ Daily Prophet _wonder how our Saviour will take this news. Will the Boy-Who-Lived be furious with the Ministry’s flawed system of bureaucracy? This reporter wants to know. –Scott Leadsman_

“Good Merlin,” Harry said, awed.

Sirius was up in an instant. “What? What is it?” he asked. His eyes were panicked like that night in the Shrieking Shack. Harry handed him the newspaper article. Sirius skimmed it, eyes widening, and then read it again, slowly—taking in every word.

“Oh my gods,” Sirius said. “Oh my gods,” he said again, a smile starting to form on his lips. They just looked at each other for several long minutes before Sirius pulled Harry up and started dancing with him around the kitchen, laughing and shouting. Harry couldn’t help but laugh with him.

It was only after they had both exhausted themselves that something occurred to Sirius. “You knew,” he said to Harry. “You asked me if I’d read the paper. How did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I just knew that something was going to be in the newspaper today.”

“Yeah, but how?” Sirius asked. “How’d you know?”

Harry stared at him, trapped. After a moment’s contemplation, decided to answer. If he could trust anyone with this, it would be Sirius. With a fair bit of hesitation, Harry told his godfather about his new connection to Voldemort, their frequent meetings, their discussions—almost everything. And for his part, Sirius didn’t start shouting or screaming, but his eyes certainly widened and narrowed appropriately.

At the end, they sat in silence, still a little stunned, before Sirius said, feigning casualness, though his adrenaline was still high,“I refuse to owe a favour to a dark lord.”

Harry laughed, and the tension was broken.

ɤɣɤ

  


Afterwards, Harry wrote back to Ron and Hermione explaining where he was and what had happened as much as he was able to—because he really didn’t relish the idea of doing it face to face. The barrage of questions and righteous exclamations would’ve been enough to put any wizard in an early grave. Harry figured there had been enough death lately.

He’d offered to take Sirius out to lunch to celebrate—sans glamour disguises—but Sirius wouldn’t hear of it because it was Harry’s birthday, so instead, they stayed home for the morning and decided that they would patronize some muggle bars that night. Harry had never been, and Sirius hadn’t been in nearly two decades, so he figured it was as good as anything for celebrations. And what were godfathers for if not corruption of young minds?

But the day was beautiful, and Harry couldn’t stand to stay inside the house, even with the library calling to him. He didn’t even want to think of what Hermione might say about that. He’d never hear the end of it. She’d just be so bloody…proud of him over it.

After breakfast, Sirius followed him outside and they sat in the garden drinking lemonade and watching the waves crash against the shore. It was warm and sunny and a bloody nice day.

Fred, despite Sirius’ best efforts, had done an excellent job on the garden. And there were lilies planted everywhere which Harry appreciated and which Sirius probably did, even though he didn’t mention it at all.

Ginger came out a few minutes later to take in the empty glasses and remind them that lunch would be served at noon, but other than that, they were uninterrupted. It was several minutes later when Sirius started fidgeting uncontrollably. He wasn’t one for sitting still too long. Harry watched, amused, as Sirius first started pulling the grass up and shredding it and then moved on to searching for bugs in the grass.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, Sirius transformed, and bounced around for a few minutes as Padfoot. He got bored of chasing his own tail after a few minutes, and Harry, feeling amusedly sorry for him, called him over and rubbed him behind his ears.

“Good dog,” Harry said, mocking. Padfoot growled.

Harry laughed and settled back on the grass again while Padfoot went off in search of something more entertaining, probably gnomes. He winced as something hard and sharp dug into his back. The book—he’d left it in his robes the other day and completely forgotten about it.  
He flipped through it for a while, cringing at some of the theories on necromancy and getting a little misty-eyed—in a very masculine way—over some of the love letters. They were never addressed by name and they were always signed with an R—except for on one occasion when Harry noticed a letter was signed RR. The page after that was a report detailing a rather gruesome attempt to resurrect said lover with no success; Harry decided he’d had enough.

He just couldn’t read it anymore without sicking up all over the gardens, and he didn’t think Fred would appreciate that very much. Padfoot was nowhere in sight, so he trekked off to the Manor proper, and headed for the main library to exchange it for something less _titillating_.

Ginger, who was busy cleaning the stone floors of the library by hand, gave him a quelling look, and silently dared him to step foot on her newly washed floors.

“I just want to exchange this book,” Harry said helplessly. Ginger continued to stare him down. Honestly, he’d never seen such an overbearing house-elf.

“Ginger asks Little Master to use the second entrance to library, then. Little Master will find it behind portrait of Arcturus Black on the third floor.” Harry cringed again. He had no idea why Fred and Ginger always referred to him as Little Master instead of Harry or even Master Harry, but he couldn’t persuade them otherwise.

He thanked Ginger, tucked the book back into his robes and jogged up the stairs. He’d seen the portrait of Arcturus Black the week before—according to Sirius, Arcturus was Sirius’ paternal grandfather—but he couldn’t quite remember where.

He passed a couple windows that he’d not noticed the first day, but now that he did, realised that the view of the firth was even better from here. There were other portraits—another Sirius Black who looked remarkably like Harry’s godfather, Melina Black, Phineas Black the original, and several others that were not present in Grimmauld Place. Possibly, they’d been destroyed, given Sirius’ mum’s predilection for that sort of thing.

Twenty minutes later, Harry finally found an Arcturus Black. Right in plain view. He wondered how he’d missed it his first time around. In all this time, Harry almost forgot why he was looking in the first place.

“Hello,” Harry said hesitantly. Arcturus Black was a stern looking man, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was upset him—portrait or no. Arcturus was currently seated at a writing desk and tapping a quill to his chin in thought. He looked up and stared at Harry. Neat, grey hair was tied delicately at his nape, but that was the only delicate thing about the man.

Arcturus did not speak, so Harry, beginning to fidget in his discomfort, opened his mouth again. “I’d like to get to the library…if that’s okay with you, of course.”

Still, Arcturus did not speak. It was when Harry was ready to just turn around and wait for Ginger’s floors to dry, that he finally stood from his writing desk and approached the front of the frame. “Come closer, boy,” he said, in a thick Scottish brogue.

Harry did so, although warily. It was not like a portrait could hurt him, but Arcturus had eyes like a basilisk, and Harry began to doubt himself. Arcturus leaned down and peered at Harry closely, eyes flickering all across Harry’s face. He leaned back and stroked his sharp black goatee thoughtfully, and then, nodded his head once.

The portrait swung inward instead of outward, which Harry found unnerving as Arcturus watched him closely as he stepped through the gold frame. There was a narrow corridor leading straight ahead with no windows on either side, and just as Harry retrieved his wand for light, the portrait swung shut again with a resounding knock. He jumped, and could hear a low, resonating chuckle from the other side.

Unnerved, he lit his wand and held it out in front of him. He took a few hesitant steps, and when no traps were sprung, he continued on. The corridor wasn’t very long at all, which surprised Harry when he bumped into a wall at the other end, even with his wand lit. He realised that it was an illusion; Sirius’ father had been quite the paranoid man. He suspected it ran in the family.

Fumbling, Harry located an uneven panel on the wall in front of him and pushed. The wall was a door, and it creaked. It was heavy and twice as wide as a normal door; he had to end up using his shoulders, but it opened. Harry was immediately assaulted with overly bright sunlight flickering in from the skylights in the library. He blinked several times, and turned to shut the door behind him, wondering how he’d never noticed a door there to begin with, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the door in the light.

There was a tapestry mounted on the inside of the door displaying the Black Family Tree, back at least a dozen generations. It was huge, and slightly better preserved than the one at Grimmauld Place, but other than the size and state of repair, there was one big difference from this tapestry and the one in London: there were no scorch marks. At all.

It was completely preserved in its near-original state and Harry was fascinated. It began with Castor Black in 1401 who married Jeanerette Goldstein and had two sons, who in turn branched off and created dozens of other Black lines. There were at least two other Siriuses and several Reguluses even before the tapestry made it to the original Phineas Black on the tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

Harry scanned it slowly, taking in every detail of his godfather’s family and finally putting names and dates to the seven holes he’d seen at Grimmauld Place. He followed it to the right first and all the way down to Andromeda, with a line connecting her to Theodore Tonks and then to Nymphadora. They hadn’t been on the other tapestry; it was kind of odd to finally see Tonks on a Black Family Tapestry. To her right, Narcissa was linked to Lucius Malfoy with Draco sprouted off below.

Harry sneered and circled back up to the top to follow the next line down. He sat there for twenty minutes and still hadn’t made it to his godfather’s line, but he was in no rush. He had all summer to do whatever he wanted, and at the moment, he wanted to learn a little history—there were even a few Potters in the Black family! This was much better than Professor Binns’ class.

Harry found himself creating back-stories for all of the Blacks that died young and amused himself with it thoroughly. When Bellatrix was born, her father was only thirteen years old. He wasn’t sure if he was disgusted or amused by that. Probably both.

At some point, he’d sat down in front of the tapestry, cross-legged and leaned back against the door frame for comfort, and so he was surprised when a hand landed on his shoulder. He jumped and turned his head, wondering how Sirius had managed to sneak up on him.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sirius grinned. He was sweaty and his hair was wild in the places that were stuck to his skin with perspiration. “What’cha doin’?”

Harry gestured in front of him. “This one’s complete. And bigger.” An unreadable emotion flickered over Sirius’ eyes as he noticed what had captured Harry’s attention, but it disappeared quickly and he sat down cross-legged next to him.

“I haven’t seen this one in ages,” Sirius said, head cocked to the side as he studied it. “How’d you find it?”

“Ginger was cleaning the main floor of the library when I came in, and told me to take the second entrance.”

“What second entrance?” Sirius asked.

Harry shrugged. “The corridor leading here is behind a portrait of Arcturus Black on the third floor. Just ask, and he’ll let you in…not a very likable bloke, though.”

Harry missed the odd expression that crossed Sirius’ face when he mentioned the portrait letting him through, because he’d resumed his study of the tapestry, now only one line away from Sirius’.

“That’s strange,” said Sirius. “I’ve never seen him let anyone in that wasn’t in my family. I thought you’d found a different entrance.”

“Strange,” Harry agreed, distracted. They studied the tapestry in companionable silence for a while, Sirius interjecting humorous stories as he passed over several ancestors and Harry drifting lower and lower through the generations.

It wasn’t until Harry finally reached the bottom of the last line of Blacks that he broke the silence himself with a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” Sirius asked. Harry didn’t answer immediately, and Sirius looked back and forth between the tapestry and his godson in rapid succession. “What?” he asked again. Harry pointed, at the bottom and slightly to the left, where the end of Sirius’ line was. Only—Sirius wasn’t the last of that line of Blacks. Regulus wasn’t even the last of that line.

Instead, there was a single line leading directly from Sirius Black—1960 -, to Castor Black—1980- and no line connecting Sirius to a wife.

“What in Dagda’s name...?” Sirius said incredulously. He got up from his cross-legged position and leaned on his knees to stare at the tapestry closer. Harry had not moved; he was sitting remarkably still and staring straight at the last name on the tapestry. Sirius looked back at him and managed a wobbly, embarrassed grin.

“I suppose I’ve got an, er, illegitimate kid somewhere, only…” he shook his head, obviously trying to clear it. He tried to grin again, but he looked a little panicked, even to Harry.

“Only what?” Harry asked, still staring at the name.

“It’s nothing,” Sirius insisted, but the argument sounded weak even to his own ears. His eyebrows were furrowed, but he was _still_ trying to grin, and the result made him look terribly mad.

Harry finally looked up at him, and Sirius noted that his eyes were intense and blank at the same time. “Only…” Sirius hesitated. “It’s just that I’ve not been with anyone but your mother.”

ɤɣɤ


	5. Black Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 04/30/11.

  


They stared at each other in complete silence, neither knowing exactly how it should be broken, or if it should be broken at all. Sirius was studying Harry’s face intently, worrying his lip with his teeth, and scrunching his brows in the comical way that Sirius dealt with stress. Harry jumped, startled, when his godfather’s hand reached up to pull his glasses off his face.

The magical contacts immediately readjusted so that he could see, and when the blurriness had subsided, Sirius was looking at him intently. He ran a finger down Harry’s nose—the same nose that Harry had once thought he’d inherited from a grandparent on one side or the other, as it belonged to neither Lily nor James. Now, Harry realised, it looked a lot like the sharp nose of Arcturus Black, and of Sirius—pronounced and aristocratic with the slightest hint of a Roman ridge to it.

He watched as Sirius ran the same finger down the length of his own nose—testing and studying.

“Your chin,” Sirius said. “It kind of looks like mine.”

“And my nose?” Harry asked uncomfortably.

“It feels like mine,” Sirius said uneasily. “And your hair…”

“It’s darker than James Potter’s,” Harry said. “It’s black.” He swallowed. “Like yours.”

“And it’s straighter than either James’ or Lily’s.” Sirius looked away, uncomfortable. He swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing. “And without your glasses,” he said, trailing off.

“I look like you. Like Arcturus. Like any other Black, without the grey eyes…” Harry guessed. “Why didn’t anyone notice?”

Sirius shrugged. It was a feeble motion. “Because no one had a reason to…and there are Blacks in the Potter family,” he continued weakly. “We have a lot of the same attributes.”

Harry looked down at his knees. “What does this mean?”

Sirius pulled his knees up to his chest, too—looking for all the world like a scared child—and propped his head on them. He didn’t answer directly, shrugging awkwardly instead. “Arcturus Black was my grandfather on my father’s side,” he said instead.

“That’s where my father got his paranoia from, you know,” he added. He was trying to force himself calmer, and he was having only marginal success. “He was a very paranoid man. There are three portraits of him all throughout this manor, guarding various places, and so far as I know, he’s never let anyone who wasn’t a Black past him.”

Harry looked up sharply, but Sirius didn’t acknowledge it. He answered Harry’s unspoken question, “He could always tell who had Black blood in them, you know. He can _feel_ it, I suppose.”

“He studied me before he let me through,” Harry said, face again pressed into his knees. “And the house-elves…” Harry continued, “I never thought about it before, but they can’t be bound to more than one family…and they’re bound to me. I felt it when it happened.”

Sirius inhaled shakily. “And they call you Young Master,” he said. “That’s what house-elves call the young heirs before they become the heads of a family…And the port-key.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, for lack of anything better.

Sirius shook his head. “It shouldn’t have taken you with me, even if you were touching it. It only works for those of Black blood, but…I was so upset at the time, trying to keep myself from hexing that idiot muggle that I didn’t even think about it.”

Suddenly, his godfather unfolded himself and reached into his pocket, pulling out two muggle Zippo lighters—one with a black greyhound on it and another with a white greyhound. He handed the white one to Harry with shaking fingers. “It was Regulus’,” Sirius explained quietly. “It’ll take you anywhere you want to go, so long as you’ve been there before and know what it looks like.”

He nodded to the lighter in Harry’s hand and said, “Picture your bedroom and say it.”

Harry nodded, imagined his bedroom complete with the new four-poster bed facing a huge picture window framed with those black velvet and blue silk draperies. “ _Portus_ ,” he said, and felt the unmistakably nauseating sensation of his insides being tugged into the port-key and swirling around.

When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on his bed. He shook his head to clear it. This was absurd. Overwhelmed, he ported back. Sirius’ head was in his hands when he returned. He didn’t look up as he said, “It worked.” Harry nodded, even though Sirius couldn’t see him do it. “What do we do now?” Sirius asked, but he wasn’t asking Harry. He wasn’t asking anyone.

Harry’s face took on a desperate look and he tried to take the pressure off the sensation with a cheeky, “I don’t know. You tell me—you’re the parent,” but it didn’t come out the way he’d imagined it. Across from him, Sirius laughed—a disturbingly humourless laugh that slowly turned into a sound that was quite strange and wild. Harry buried his face between his knees and tried to remember what breathing felt like.

“We have to go,” Sirius said suddenly. He stood up, rubbed furiously at his face. He looked around anxiously, though Harry couldn’t tell for the life of him what Sirius was looking at or looking for. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sirius shook his head. “We need to go there. Lily—she would’ve left something, maybe, anything, I bet. The Unplottable wards should have kept it from the muggles.”

Sirius’s words were coming out jumbled. He was pacing back and forth in the few feet of open floor in front of Harry. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he muttered under his breath. “There could be an entirely different explanation. Don’t get your hopes up, Sirius,” he said. “It could be anything. This is not the time to be a Gryffindor. We have to find all the facts.”

Harry stood up and the movement caught Sirius’ attention. His eyes were unnervingly wild, a sharp reminder of just how he’d looked out of Azkaban. “Touch the port-key,” he said, pulling his own Zippo lighter out again.

Harry slowly reached out and touched his finger to the port-key, and Sirius said, “ _Portus._ ” Harry closed his eyes and clenched his fists, knowing exactly where they were going. He couldn’t even remember this place, and yes, he wanted to see it...but not like this. It was too much. Too much, too soon, and he wasn’t sure how either of them would handle it.

He opened his eyes to destruction.

That’s all it was, really—a huge pile of charred wood, broken stone, and bad energy. Weeds were growing in sinister patterns through the debris—but all around, everything else was perfect. The remains of the house the Potters once lived in was a blemish on an otherwise ideal landscape, full of mature trees and white flowers.

Next to him, Sirius was rubbing his face and squeezing his temples as if he were trying to squeeze his brain right out of his head. Harry touched his arm and Sirius twitched.

Harry realised that they were both in shock. It was too much in one day—Sirius’ name being cleared even though the people who would have actually cared thought he was dead and then this. Whatever this was. Harry’s breathing was coming rapidly, but other than that, he felt calm.

Restless, but calm. He just needed to know—for certain—whatever the truth was, he needed to know. The thought came to him that he wanted this assumption to be true. He loved James Potter as much as he _could_ love someone he couldn’t remember, but… Sirius was still here. Harry wanted family more than anything. Sirius knew him.

Knew him _better_ anyway. They’d only had a little more than a year of underground meetings and floo calls to get to know each other before that summer, but he was comfortable with Sirius. He knew what Sirius’ voice sounded like, and he knew what kinds of things set him off. He knew what Sirius looked like when he was trying to pull off a prank, and when he was trying to impress. He knew none of that about James Potter.

And all the pieces fit.

Secretly, Harry _hoped_.

“Come on then,” Sirius said, pulling himself together. He started walking, haltingly at first, towards the demolished house and stopped next to what looked to be an old trellis, though the vines covering it now were certainly not beautiful. “This was the porch,” he said to himself; his voice had risen in pitch with nervousness.

Harry carefully followed Sirius through. Pieces of furniture could be seen, mostly crushed from the roof’s collapse. There was a table—possibly from the dining room—and a poster from a bed, and off to the side, a broken wardrobe lying face down in the overgrowth.

Harry stepped over to it, carefully dodging splintered pieces of wood, nails, glass, and listening for any snakes that might be hiding within. Behind him, he could see Sirius lifting up a piece of wood and tugging on something beneath it. He turned back to the wardrobe and pushed it over.

The front of it was decorated in intricate little white calla lilies; he sucked in a lungful of air as he realised that it must’ve been his mother’s. His chest tightened, squeezing his lungs painfully. At least he knew that his mother was surely his mother.

Reverently, he ran a finger over the flowers trailing along the front and gasped as something flickered in his mind, like how he felt when he’d slipped his mother’s wedding ring on his finger. He pulled his finger back hastily and tried to concentrate on whatever it was, but it slipped away from him like a dream. The more he concentrated, the further it slithered away. Carefully, he pressed his finger to the design again.

_Red hair. White teeth. A woman with a soft, lilting laugh. She put something inside the wardrobe and closed it carefully._

  


Harry jerked open the doors and stared inside. It was dusty and dirty with rotted clothes and the smell of deteriorating wood. He couldn’t breathe and he wasn’t sure if it was only because of the smell or the dust. Something gleamed beneath the dirty clothes and he carefully reached inside, fingers touching with something cold and metallic.

Carefully, he closed his fingers around it and pulled it out, but was disappointed to find that it was only a key. A Gringotts key engraved ‘Evans – 460’. His mother’s vault key, but…what did he want with gold? He already had enough of it. He sighed unhappily. A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“What did you find?” Sirius asked, and Harry was happy to note that his voice sounded steady again.

Harry shrugged. “My mother’s vault key, but I really don’t care for the money.” He wondered now, if he really _wasn’t_ a Potter, whether or not he should pay back the money he’d used from the Potter vault for his tuition. There were no other Potters to inherit it, but it wasn’t his to begin with. Perhaps he should give it to charity.

“Don’t you know, Kiddo?” Sirius asked, surprised. Harry stared at him blankly, so he continued, “Liquid cash is overseen by the husband, generally. Witches don’t keep gold in their vaults after they marry. They move their gold to their new family vaults, and only keep their other valuable possessions in their personal one.

“Jewellery, heirlooms, antique furniture, expensive textiles, familial possessions, _documents_ ,” Sirius said pointedly. Harry bit his lip, intrigued.“If your mother left anything for you to find, that she didn’t want anyone else to find,” said Sirius, “it would be in that vault. No one can access a witch’s vault but her, and her children she’s dead. If she left anything, it will still be there.”

Harry suddenly felt very tired, but he was determined. “We have to look,” he said. “I have to know.”

Sirius nodded, but frowned. “You’ll have to go by yourself.”

“Why?” Harry asked. He couldn’t do this by himself. He just couldn’t.

“If I’m spotted then what will we do? It won’t make much of a difference what the outcome is if I’m arrested again,” he said.

Suddenly, his voice grew anxious again. “If…if this isn’t some big joke,” he said trying to smile, “and James was pretty good at those. Always better than me…I wouldn’t put this past him,” he laughed humourlessly, as if he were trying to keep from getting his hopes up, “then…I can’t go back there. I…”

“Sirius,” Harry interrupted, confused.

“…If this is all real, then,” he started to shake again and Harry grabbed his forearm forcefully.

“Sirius!” he said. Sirius looked up, apparently very close to a panic attack. “My birthday present, remember?” he asked pointedly. Sirius scrunched up his brows in confusion. “From Voldemort?” Harry prompted.

Sirius suddenly looked very pale. “Good Merlin, he knew.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“You-Know-Who…he knew,” Sirius muttered to himself. “Oh fucking hell, this is about to hit home all at once and I’m going to go insane after lasting over a decade in Azkaban.”

“If you know you’re going crazy, you can’t really be crazy,” Harry said, quite logically.

Sirius looked at him. “Alright, I’m a free man, yes,” he told Harry quickly, “but don’t you understand? The Dark Lord knew. He _knew_.”

“Knew what?” Harry asked again.

“He knows you’re not really a Potter. He knows.”

“What makes you say that?” Harry said, remembering in disturbing clarity the conversation he’d had with Voldemort recently. _‘I know many things,’_ Voldemort had said. And all that he’d known about his mother. Harry felt a chill run down his spine. Still, the Blacks were known for their paranoia.

“Life debt,” Sirius said, pulling on the hair by his temples. “You brought him back to life, whether by free will or not, and he owed you, and Pettigrew owed you.”

Harry scoffed. “Right,” he said, drawing out the word in disbelief. “And how does that explain how Voldemort knew I wasn’t James Potter’s son…assuming this isn’t one of his jokes like you said,” he added.

Sirius shook his head. “You really know nothing about pureblood etiquette, do you?” Harry gave him a withering look. “Life-debts are paid by saving the life of the person who is owed the Life Debt or by saving the life of an immediate family member, unless otherwise specified by the wizard to whom the debt is owed.”

“And?” Harry said, crossing his arms across his chest.

“And,” Sirius stressed, “The Dark Lord wouldn’t have saved my life if I wasn’t your immediate family. He’s paid his debt now. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

Harry inhaled quickly. “How did he know?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Sirius said, shaking his head. He pulled the Zippo lighter from his pocket again and held it out to Harry. “But I bet your mother would’ve known. She always knew everything.”

They arrived in Diagon Alley, right in front of Gringotts, a second later, and there was an immediate crowd surrounding them.

“I thought you said everyone thought I was dead!” Sirius yelled over the cheering, encroaching crowd as he grabbed for Harry’s hand to keep from losing him. Harry laughed, genuinely happy for him like the rest of these people.

“It never made it to the papers...Fudge wanted to keep the whole thing quiet, so no one knew but the Order,” he said. Sirius scowled as a young, swooning witch exclaimed to him how absolutely, devilishly brave he was. He pulled Harry closer. “And I own all of your stuff now,” Harry added with a grin. “Thanks for Kreacher by the by.”

Sirius pushed through the crowd, dropping hurried smiles as he went. “I want my stuff back,” he said petulantly. “It might have been stupid dark arts stuff, but it was mine and I enjoyed the destroying process. You will, of course, be returning it.”

Sirius paused, and then said, “What happened to Kreacher anyway?”

“Er,” Harry said, hedging. They finally reached the doors to Gringotts. “He wanted to be on the wall at Grimmauld Place, so I put him there.” The door-goblin greeted them with a bow and Harry smiled his thanks before rushing inside, Sirius right behind him. The doors shut and they sighed in relief; the goblin kept all non-customers of the bank outside.

They approached the desks and waited to be acknowledged, which, admittedly, didn’t take as long as it usually did. Harry assumed, rightly, that the goblins could smell Sirius’ money.

“Yes?” the goblin said, looking up from a huge pile of paperwork.

Sirius grinned roguishly and nudged Harry with his elbow. “Harry Potter to see Lily Potter, née Evans’ vault, number 460. That’s his mother. Escorted by Sirius Black.”

The goblin only hummed—not caring at all that just a year before Albus Dumbledore had told them that Sirius Black was dead—and held his hand out for the key which Harry handed over. Goblins, incidentally, did not have eyebrows, but Harry was fairly certain that if they did, this one would’ve raised his at the state of the key. It was tarnished and dirty with little bits of cloth stuck in odd places.

“Follow me, if you please,” the goblin said. He stood from his desk and made towards the carts without even bothering to see if Harry and Sirius were following. The ride down was nothing different from any of the other rides before, but Sirius seemed to be handling it well, and as Harry was only slightly nauseated by the end, it was a fairly uneventful trip.

“Entrance requires the child if the mother is deceased. Mr _Potter_ ,” and neither Harry nor Sirius missed the pointed enunciation, “if you will please place your hand on the door as I insert the key.” Harry did so. “Thank you,” the goblin said flatly. “If Mr. Black would like to enter as well, Mr Potter will have to escort him inside.”

The door sprung open to reveal a vault no bigger than Harry’s bedroom at the Dursley’s house. It wasn’t very full, and there was not a coin in sight, but what _was_ in there excited Harry beyond imagination. These were his mother’s things.

The first thing he noticed was a portrait of a witch and a wizard, middle-aged, slumped against each other asleep. He walked over to it after gesturing Sirius to follow him in, and stared at the inscription. _Frank Evans. Laurel Evans._

He gasped; he was staring at an actual magical portrait of his grandparents, and the witch—a thin woman with a sloped nose and reddish blonde hair—sleepily blinked open her eyes. She looked at Harry bemusedly for several seconds and then elbowed the sleeping wizard next to her.

“Five more minutes, Lar,” he mumbled, and moved around a bit, presumably to get more comfortable. Consequently, his head rolled off the witch’s shoulder and landed with a thump in her lap. He began to snore; the witch’s lips twitched into a smile.

She nudged him again, harder this time, and he sat up quickly—so quickly in fact that he fell completely out of the chair he was sitting in, and thusly, out of the viewable area of the frame. Harry laughed and the sound alerted Sirius, who wandered over to see what was going on.

“Mrs Evans,” Sirius said. The witch quirked her lips again, nodded to Sirius and looked down. She jerked her leg and a petulant ‘Ow!’ was heard from somewhere near the bottom of the frame.

“You don’t have to kick me, Laurel,” the wizard said, his salt-and-pepper hair peeking over the bottom edge of the frame as he struggled to get up. She shot him a withering look and nodded towards Harry and Sirius. The wizard pulled himself back into his chair and looked out of the frame before doing a rather comical double-take. “What’s this then?” he asked, getting out of his chair yet again and stepping to the front of the frame.

He bent down and looked Harry in the eye, removing a pair of reading glasses as his greying moustache twitched in thought. Suddenly he grinned. “Definitely an Evans boy,” he called over his shoulder proudly. The witch snorted, and elegantly lifted herself from her chair, gliding over to stand next to her husband.

“Whose do you suppose he is?” the wizard said to his wife.

In response, she rolled her eyes—they were the same green eyes that he and his mother had. “Probably too much of a chore to ask him yourself instead of all of this speculating, isn’t it Frank?” she asked. It was, in fact, the first time she’d spoken at all, and she had a distinctly American accent. She sounded like one of those tourists that he saw snapping pictures of Buckingham Palace that one time he’d been allowed to go on a field trip in muggle school.

Frank turned back, seeming to finally notice Sirius. “No need, _dear_ ,” he said. “This one’s Lily’s; I can tell. Finally took up with _you_ , did she?” he asked Sirius with an amused, raised eyebrow.

Sirius turned his head to the side and spotted something shiny. “Would you look at that!” he exclaimed, overly cheerful. He wandered off, and Harry turned back to the portrait, fighting a grin.

“You are Lily’s then, aren’t you?” Frank directed at Harry. Harry nodded and the wizard smiled brightly. He stood up straight and scratched his moustache; his head cocked to the side as Laurel hid a grin behind her hand. Finally, he nodded, and quite decisively at that. “We’ll like a spot above a fireplace, in the main room,” he decided. “I won’t be put away in some unused corner again. It’s terribly boring.”

Laurel snorted.

“I’m sorry?” Harry asked.

“You _are_ taking us with you, aren’t you, boy?”

Harry opened his mouth and then quickly shut it. “Of course,” he said quickly. He pointed over his shoulder and started backing up in minute steps. “I’ve just to find a few things. I’ll grab you on the way out then, hey?”

Harry gave them a quick grin and hurried over to Sirius who was pouring through a stack of papers. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the pile with his hair falling in his eyes as he read. “Anything useful?” Harry asked as he flopped down next to him.

Wordlessly, Sirius handed over an old, faded piece of parchment. It was bordered in a Celtic knot pattern, but had very few words on it. Those words just happened to be rather startling.

  
_Certificate of Live Magical Birth_  
**Harry Castor Black**  
On the 31st of July, in the year of Merlin, 1980  
To Lily Evans Potter and Sirius Seth Black (unmarried)  
Witnessed and confirmed by Narcissa Black Malfoy  


Harry looked over to Sirius who was staring down at his hands silently. “That’s me,” he said uselessly. Sirius nodded because he already knew. Of course he knew.

“That’s not all,” Sirius said, as he handed Harry another piece of parchment. It was identical to the first one, except the name read ‘Harry James Potter’ and the father was listed as ‘James Charlus Potter’. Narcissa Malfoy was still listed as witness, but Harry didn’t have the presence of mind to think about that at the moment. “She tried to cover it up,” Sirius said with a shrug, “but she purposefully made an authentic one, too.

“It makes no sense,” Sirius growled. “If Narcissa was witnessing…well that could mean anything, but James wouldn’t have been in the room at your birth. It’s sacred to a lot of families—only the mother and the midwife and the grandmothers are allowed in, you know—there was no reason for Narcissa to even bother with a real one if she was just going to make a fake one, too.”

Harry fidgeted. “Then why would she?”

Sirius shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose your mother wanted us to find out.”

Harry smiled. “I hope so.”

“So it’s true then.” Sirius sighed, standing up. He reached down to help Harry to his feet and gave him a small smile. “You really are mine.”

Harry smiled nervously, hair falling over his eyes as he ducked his head. Sirius said, “What do you think about that?”

Harry looked up, suddenly sure that he was about to be rejected. “Happy birthday to me?” he ventured. Sirius barked out a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder heartily.

“I don’t know how happy I’d be about it,” Sirius said, waggling his eyebrows. “I think I’d be dreadfully frightened. Who would want _me_ as a father, after all?” he asked with a laugh.

“I would,” Harry said, and Sirius smiled quickly before turning his head and rubbing suspiciously at his eyes.

“Let’s shrink all this and take it with us,” Sirius said. “We can sort it out at the house, yeah? I’m sure that goblin’s tired of waiting on us.”

ɤɣɤ

Back at the manor, owls were already waiting for him from Ron and Hermione. Sirius unshrunk everything from his mother’s vault and stacked it up in the drawing room for further perusal while Harry read the letters, cringing and wincing appropriately.

Hermione was especially perturbed that Harry had spent over a month with Sirius without alerting anyone—especially since Sirius was dead, legally of course.  


>   
>  _  
> Harry,_
> 
> _Are you insane?_
> 
> _Neither Ron nor I hear from you since leaving the platform in June, and you suddenly write to us and tell us that you’ve been staying with Snuffles—dead Snuffles—for almost two months?_
> 
> _Are you sure this is wise Harry? Are you certain he isn’t a Death Eater? Well, I suppose that you’re right—he wouldn’t have been able to enter Grimmauld Place if he wasn’t who he said he was, and he wouldn’t be able to be Padfoot either, but if all of this is really true, then who DID die in the Department of Mysteries?_
> 
> _Harry this is mind-boggling. I looked through several books that I have with me and have come up with some ideas._

She suggested the possibility of Polyjuice and a golem. She wanted to know why Dumbledore didn’t know Sirius wasn’t really –and who had been acting in Sirius’ place at Grimmauld Place their entire fifth year. Hermione mused that that was rather questionable. Harry agreed.

Ron, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He gave him a written pat on the back, telling him that he was glad things were finally going Harry’s way. He’d alerted his mother, who in turn had contacted Dumbledore to confirm it. Then, she’d had a merry time of telling everyone else in the Order and the rest of the Weasley family. Ron said to expect a melee of questions when Harry made it to the Burrow.

Unfortunately, Harry had no plans of going to the Burrow this year, so he wrote back to both of his friends and invited them over to River House instead. After consulting with Sirius, he’d included the rest of the Weasleys in the invitation. They had plenty of room for everyone, but Harry wasn’t sure how well either Sirius or he would be able to handle the questionings. He was rather thankful that it would be divided between the two of them.  


>   
>  _  
> Dear Ron and Hermione,_
> 
> _Instead of me visiting you at the Burrow this year, why don’t you all come here instead? I’m sure Sirius would love to see everyone again. We haven’t seen anyone from the Order, obviously, since arriving. Of course the rest of the Weasleys are invited too. We’ve got plenty of room for everyone and the view is really cool._
> 
> _Also, Hermione, the library is three storeys. Floor to ceiling books. Most of them old. One of a kind._
> 
> _Write back soon to let me know whether or not you’ll come. You can stay for the rest of the summer, Sirius says._
> 
> _Harry._

He finished with an exhausted sigh and decided he needed a nap before he did anything else for the day. It was just before dinner, and he still had to get over his shock from the morning. He suspected that when it hit him, he would be an utter wreck, but for now, he would sleep.

Voldemort, conversely, had other plans.

He had probably been slinking about in Harry’s mind all day, just waiting for him to fall asleep, because as soon as Harry’s head hit the pillow, his mind left his body. He should probably resume his Occlumency lessons sometime in the near future.

“Can’t you let me sleep?” Harry asked petulantly. “I’ve had a long day.”

Voldemort was sitting on a leather Chesterfield, flipping through the pages of a ratty old book with a mark in the middle that looked like acid had been poured on the cover. It looked familiar. “You’re welcome,” he said, not looking up from his book. “Mr Black.”

Harry sat up, interested. “So you did know then, didn’t you?”

“I know many things,” Voldemort said, repeating his words from before. Harry scowled.

“How did you know?” Harry asked.

Voldemort sat the book down on a side table, marking his page, and asked, ‘Tea?’ but he didn’t, yet again, give Harry the opportunity to answer. Harry sat down on the coffee table and waited with his arms crossed over his chest while Voldemort gathered up his tea things.

He politely took the tacky little tea cup—this time it was a horrible set with pink roses—and sipped while Voldemort stared him down. “No lemon drop?” Harry asked when Voldemort didn’t speak for nearly five minutes. The whole ordeal was reminiscent of Dumbledore.

Voldemort laughed wickedly. “Tell me the prophecy,” he said bluntly, catching Harry off guard.

“Sorry?” Harry asked, nearly dropping the tea cup. “I thought I heard you ask me to tell you the prophecy.”

“I did,” said Voldemort.

Harry shook his head. “Not on your life.”

Voldemort smirked. “What difference will it make? My knowledge of it will not change the outcome.”

“Prophecies are tricky things…” Harry said, but Voldemort was not to be distracted. He waved his hand impatiently, unconcerned.

“Exactly,” Voldemort said. “So just tell me. Perhaps,” he said with a leer, “if I knew it, we could end this war with no more bloodshed.”

That was, in fact, a rather strong argument as far as Harry was concerned. It was just words, he decided. It wasn’t as if it told Voldemort how to beat him, and prophecies could easily be interpreted the wrong way—some didn’t come to pass at all, Ron said. He was so tired of hiding it—it wasn’t like it was even _useful._ Harry weighed his options very carefully, and hoped that he wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake. He sighed, resigned, and repeated the prophecy.  
_  
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…”_

Only seconds later, he decided that he was entirely too easy to manipulate and was rather glad that he hadn’t just told Voldemort where all of his friends lived or who was a member of the Order of the Phoenix. He would never win the war if he kept giving away all of his information. Wars were _won_ on information and it wasn’t as if Voldemort needed help getting the upper hand.

Well, maybe not. As he’d thought earlier, it was just words. It offered no assistance either way in how to defeat the other.

“Doesn’t sound very promising, does it?” Voldemort mused, snapping Harry out of his thoughts.

“What?” Harry said.

“The _prophecy_ , boy,” Voldemort said with exasperation in his voice. Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of this situation. “So everything adds up, yes,” Voldemort said, “Seventh month, marked as equal,” he was nodding to himself as he counted off the points of the prophecy in a disturbingly logical manner. “Thrice-defied, hmm...” The Dark Lord paused, considering this.

“The key words, however,” Voldemort said abruptly, “are vanquish, die, live and survive, though we mustn’t neglect to give thought to the power I know not,” he added. Harry was staring at him by now, baffled.

“Vanquish,” Voldemort said pointedly, red eyes boring into Harry’s, “means ‘defeat’…‘conquer’…even ‘subdue’ in addition to those other, less pleasant, synonyms. This power—whatever it is—that you have, can do anything from disable my forces to kill me.”

“Prophecies are tricky things,” Harry said once again, for lack of anything more helpful to say. Voldemort looked as though he was barely restraining himself from rolling his red eyes. He set his tea cup down and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his no doubt bony knees.

“Indeed,” Voldemort replied dryly, but was quickly back in lecture mode. Harry wondered why he’d never tried to become a professor instead of a dark lord. It would have paid better, at the least. “ _‘Die’_ on the other hand,” Voldemort continued, “does not necessarily refer to either of us in a literal sense; it could be metaphorical.”

“You lost me there,” Harry said, chin propped up on the palm of his hand. He’d had over a year to get used to the prophecy and he still wasn’t interested in it. He didn’t like to think about it, and he certainly didn’t like to think about Voldemort trying to weasel his way out of it. He could’ve been napping.

“You are rather insolent, aren’t you, Mr Black?” Voldemort said. Harry flinched at the name. It sounded so odd to be referred to as anything other than Harry Potter. Voldemort noticed the flinch and smirked.

“It makes you uncomfortable,” he said. Harry nodded, though he didn’t know why exactly it made him uncomfortable. He finally had a family and he had Sirius back. They had plenty of time to get to know each other now and everything was finally going semi-right. “Why?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s just a lot of information to take in. I’m still recovering from the shock of my god…father actually being alive. It’s…just strange. It’s like my entire life was a lie.”

Voldemort studied him carefully. “Will you accept it?” he asked.

“Accept what?” Harry asked. “Accept that Sirius is my father? I pretty much have to—I saw my birth certificate.”

Voldemort shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Will you accept your heritage? Your blood—your line—your _name_?” he asked pointedly.

Harry had honestly not thought of that. Of course, he’d seen the tapestry labelling him with the name Castor Black—which Harry supposed was because names seemed to be recycled in pureblood families—and his birth certificate, but he’d gone by Harry Potter all of his life.

“Should I?” he asked. Harry didn’t think there was much of heritage to accept, and he certainly wasn’t going by some silly name like Castor, but what would people think if he changed his surname? What would Sirius think?

Voldemort shrugged. “It is your name.”

“But I’ve always been Harry Potter…” Harry said.

“Yet you are not a Potter, are you?” said Voldemort.

Harry hummed noncommittally, pondering the thought. He opened his mouth to reply, but was suddenly jerked away and into consciousness.

Blearily, he opened his eyes to find himself being shaken sharply. Sirius was standing over him, grinning like a fool and holding one of his floo disk boxes with a saucy little redhead on the cover.

“Let me borrow this one, yeah?” Sirius said.

Harry groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. “Gross,” he said. Sirius laughed and Harry waved him away, but Sirius didn’t leave. “I wish you hadn’t asked,” he said. “That’s more than I needed to know.”

Harry could almost feel the nonchalant shrug he received in reply, even though his eyes were still closed. “I’m sure there’s a lot you found out today that you didn’t need to know,” Sirius replied cheerfully.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “Like I’m not a Potter.”

There was a pregnant silence, and the sound of feet shuffling on the floor before Sirius replied, “Yeah—like that.” Harry couldn’t help but note the dejected tone of Sirius’ voice. He’d not meant to insult him, but he suspected that Sirius had taken it that way. He lifted his head to explain, but Sirius was already gone.

Harry groaned and sat up on the bed. He had a feeling that this was going to be one awkward moment after another.

ɤɣɤ

  


Deciding that both he and Sirius needed some time to let the day’s events soak in, Harry did not immediately go after him. He certainly didn’t want to walk in on the floo disk being used, after all.

Instead, he wandered down to the drawing room where Sirius had left everything they’d found in his mother’s vault. The spot above the fireplace in that room was, fortunately, empty, so he went ahead and hung up the portrait of his grandparents—much to Frank’s over-enthused delight and Laurel’s quiet amusement.

There were all sorts of things to catch his attention and as he sorted through pile after pile after pile of expensive jewellery, he was graced with amusing anecdotes from Frank and elegant snorts of laughter from Laurel, who seemed too overwhelmed by his existence after all these years to participate in conversation. Her eyes followed him constantly, taking in every detail, and probably thinking of her daughters.

She asked after Petunia, and whether Harry knew her or not, but when Harry explained, stiltedly, that he lived with Aunt Petunia until recently and that she had a son called Dudley, but that Sirius had taken him away, Laurel seemed to understand right quick. She did not ask another question about the Dursleys after that.

“Laurel wore that at our wedding, you know,” Frank said, gesturing to the pearl necklace Harry had in his hand. “I say all women need to wear a pearl necklace at least once in their life,” he continued with a lascivious look at his wife. She slapped him soundly across the back of his head, and Harry laughed, blushing only slighting at the innuendo.

He found a couple pictures of his mother when she was a teenager and tucked them into his pocket. Then there was her jewellery—quite a lot of it, really; some of it passed down through Laurel’s family—and he packed it all away to store under his bed for safekeeping. There wasn’t much else left, other than the documents, and Harry didn’t think he would be able to deal with those at the moment so he left them on the writing desk and pulled out _Death in the Wizarding World_ to pass the time.

He supposed that since Sirius was alive and France wasn’t really a euphemism for Hell, it wasn’t really necessary to continue reading it, but now that he wasn’t overwhelmed with guilt and despair, he found that the book was actually quite interesting.

Chapter twelve, which was where he’d left off the last time, discussed necromancy, which was entirely too coincidental for Harry’s tastes, but he read anyway. Somehow, during the excitement of the morning, he’d completely forgotten that he wanted to exchange that gruesome book for another one. It was still tucked away in his robe pocket, but he could do that later.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 190th page.  


>   
>  __  
> 4 March, 846
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _I loathe you. Your son spoke today. No matter how hard I tried, his first word was not ‘Mother’ or even a babbled variation of—not even ‘Merlin’. It was ‘fada’._
> 
> _I have reason to believe that Leo is the cause of this, though if I find that you have been visiting our son and teaching him that word even as I have tried—and failed, thus far—to contact you, I will be sorely displeased._
> 
> _You do not want to displease me, Lover. I promise you that. I will find you sooner or later and when I resurrect your body, I will scold you so fiercely that you will regret you are no longer beneath the earth. I promise you that._
> 
> _I have, under cover of night and many wards, unearthed your body recently. The preservation spells placed on you at your end were still intact, but you stank of death. I hope that tramples your arrogance. Nevertheless, I have flayed you and stolen your bones._
> 
> _What do you think of that, Lover? Do you feel humiliated?_
> 
> _I hope that you do._
> 
> _But fear not, for I have not done this to humiliate you posthumously—I merely needed your relics for other purposes. I have been meeting with the necromancer from the village, as I told you, and learned that I will need your bones for resurrection. I decided to retrieve them before your stubbornness overrules the preservation charms._
> 
> _The skin, I admit, was for my own selfish purposes. I miss the scent of you. It has long since faded from my pillows. I have bound this journal in it and preserved it with bronze. I can smell you in the pages and it gives me determination when I feel ready to falter._
> 
> _Sam is wailing now. I must attend to him._
> 
> _Yours,  
>  R._

ɤɣɤ


	6. Black, Castor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/24/11.

  


There were fourteen chapters total in _Death in the Wizarding World_ , and within an hour, Harry had finished the last two. He had nothing left to occupy his time with, and no matter how hard he’d been trying to ignore it, the events from that morning just wouldn’t leave his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, so he decided that it was probably time he had a chat with Sirius.

He closed the book and set it down on the table next to the Chesterfield he was lounging on. The last time he’d seen Sirius was when he’d come in Harry’s room to borrow that porn disk, and Harry hoped he was finished with it.

He found Sirius in his study, sitting behind his new desk but with his chair swivelled to face the window. Harry knocked on the open door before stepping in.

“Harry!” Sirius exclaimed, startled, as he turned and faced Harry. He rubbed awkwardly at his face and attempted a bright smile, but it was obvious that his mind was occupied. “How’s it going?” He seemed to be completely over whatever was wrong with him when he’d asked to borrow the floo disk.

Harry appreciated Sirius’ attempts at pretending everything was normal, but it wasn’t, and it wasn’t the right time for games, either. He sat down across from Sirius’ desk and gave him a forced smile.

“We can’t keep ignoring this,” he said.

Sirius’ fake smile disintegrated. “I know,” he said, exhausted. “It’s just too much. All in one day—it’s hard.” He looked at Harry searchingly before adding, “What do you want to do about this?”

Harry shrugged and a flicker of his conversation with Voldemort flashed in his mind. “I already considered you a father figure, really; I suppose this just makes it official.”

Sirius grinned, genuinely this time, and Harry got a mental picture of Padfoot, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted happily. “Well I already considered you a son figure, too,” he said.

Harry laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that helps.”

Sirius agreed, and a silence fell over the room.

“I talked to Voldemort,” Harry said, “during my nap.” Sirius looked up at him sharply. Harry realised how thankful he was that Sirius didn’t shudder every time Harry said the name. It was comforting to know that if Sirius was his father, then at least he was brave enough to speak a name. He wondered if James Potter said Voldemort when he was alive, and knew immediately that he would have been. James Potter was a great man.

“Yeah?” Sirius said, face carefully blank. Harry gave him credit for that, too. Sirius couldn’t help his temper, and if he was able to listen to Harry talk about this without going off, then that was a good sign. “What did he have to say?”

Harry shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “You were right…he knew.” Sirius nodded, but Harry wasn’t finished. “What I want to know is _how_ he knew. He knew all about my mother, too. How does he know?”

“You didn’t ask him?” Sirius asked.

“Of course I did,” Harry said. “Doesn’t mean he answered me, though.”

Sirius shrugged. “I don’t know if I would’ve, either. I have to say, Harry—this business still makes me uncomfortable.”

Harry frowned. “There’s something else, too.”

The tone of his voice immediately had Sirius on guard. He sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward. “I don’t think I’m going to like this.”

Harry didn’t think so either, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing: it needed to be said or Harry was going to go crazy. “He thinks that I should take the name that’s on the tapestry.”

Sirius inhaled sharply and slumped back in his chair. “Castor Black,” he said faintly, smiling. “I liked him. I always told Lily I’d name my first son after him.” He seemed lost in his memories. Harry didn’t want to spoil the moment, but he was curious.

“And if you’d had all girls?” Harry asked.

Sirius grinned. “Cassiopeia then,” he said.

Harry laughed, tension broken. “I don’t want to be called anything other than Harry, but I gave it some thought, and I didn’t even know my middle name until I came to Hogwarts—James, I mean. I’ve always just been ‘Harry Potter’, and I thought maybe we could just the names together.” His first name was still Harry, after all, he could live with that. “Who was Castor Black, anyway?”

“One of the only ancestors I have that I actually respected. He was long dead before I was born, but there are plenty of books on Black family history in both of our houses, and I used to read about him. He was Minister of Magic from 1450-1487 when he retired and a Parkinson took over. Did lots of great things…he was certainly a Black, mind, he wasn’t afraid of dark magic and he killed a few rivals, but they deserved it.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Deserved it?”

“Definitely,” Sirius said, scowling. “There was a muggle-born wizard who raped and killed his youngest grandson. The wizard was tried, convicted and sentenced. Castor Black requested that he be allowed to carry out the sentence—it was execution by _Avada Kedavra_. This was back before execution was outlawed, you understand.”

Harry scoffed. “Anyone can be righteous like that—and why is it always the muggle-born who cause the problems? Why not half-bloods or pure-bloods?”

Sirius gave him a funny look. “Because sexuality is sacred in the wizarding world—it brings life and magic. No self-respecting pure-blood or half-blood wizard would _deign_ to rape anyone. It’s tacky, and insulting to both the perpetrator and the victim.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

Sirius scowled, but this time it was directed at Harry. “And anyway, I’d cast _Avada Kedavra_ on anyone who did that to _you_ ,” he said. “But that’s neither here nor there. He also passed the law re-allowing werewolves and veela into wizarding society. They were exiled before…I think a bunch of the ministers have tried to repeal it since then, but no luck so far. And he had Diagon Alley built in London so that all of the wizards in the area wouldn’t have to live among muggles anymore. That took a bit of effort, I can tell you. Can you imagine the man-power required for the wards and coordinate adjustments? I mean—he had to create something out of nothing! Physically, there’s no room for a wizarding town in London…and he built it. Squeezed it all in. That takes work!”

“Why wouldn’t the wizards want to live with the muggles?” Harry asked.

“C’mon, Harry, think. Witch-hunts, inquisitions, raids…they were all beginning about that time. It was a scary time.”

Harry blanched, imagining it. “What about the other wizarding towns? How were they built if it was such a big deal?”

Sirius smiled delightedly. It wasn’t often that he was the one sharing knowledge with someone else. It put a warm feeling in his stomach to realise that this must have been what it was like for other wizarding fathers—teaching their sons and daughters everything they needed to know about their history. He’d never imagined that it would be like that.

“Those towns—Eweforic Alley and Hogsmeade and all the others scattered across Britain—they were built before the muggle cities. Muggles can’t see them, obviously, so they just build on top and it’s such a slow process that the magic is able to adjust—completely ignores the Time-Space Continuum.”

Harry laughed. “I never knew that. I feel like Hermione right now, but it’s actually pretty interesting.”

Sirius nodded, then, “So why does Voldemort want you to take that name?”

Harry furrowed his brows. “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “He said that it’s my _blood_ …that I should embrace it. I think he’s trying to live through me…you know, jealous that his father wasn’t a wizard.”

“Blood is a very powerful thing,” Sirius said carefully. “I would love nothing more than for you to carry my name, but you need to understand how big of a deal it is.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “It’s just a name.”

Sirius shook his head quickly. “No, it’s anything _but_ that, really. Family honour is here much stronger than family honour in muggles because it’s magical. Family comes first— _always_ —and that even goes for people like Bellatrix. I hate her, but if she came to me asking for help, I’d be obligated to give it to her. I could risk losing my magic if I didn't.”

Harry scowled at the name. “But you left your family when you were sixteen,” he pointed out.

Sirius shook his head. “I left them, but they still came first. I may have hated my mother and resented my father for not standing up to her, but I would’ve still gone after Regulus even after that, if I hadn’t been delayed—and I still would have helped my parents if I could have. We just couldn’t _live_ together.” He sighed. “Opinions on magic don’t change that.”

Harry was confused. “But you know dark magic, and you said you even used it occasionally.”

“Because it’s _useful_ and I'm inherently better at it than light magic,” Sirius stressed. “But that doesn’t mean I think it’s the answer for everything. It’s like I was saying about the original Castor Black—he wasn’t too hot on muggle-born wizards if only because it was a dangerous time. Every time one of them learned about our world, there was a chance their parents would be coming after them to burn us down, but he didn’t kill them all off.

“He didn’t start a _war_ over it—nor did he join the one that was already starting over it,” Sirius said. “Since him, our family has pretty much stayed out of wars. We’ve always controlled in some way—but it’s usually political. He didn’t _need_ the dark magic to keep people in line when he was Minister, but he wasn’t above _using_ it if he needed to.

“Sometimes,” Sirius said, carefully weighing his next words, “you can’t help it. Sometimes people are too ignorant to be controlled any other way. They’re like lemmings—if one starts up, the rest are going to follow even if it isn’t such a great idea. Even you know that, Harry, what with all the mess you had to sit through from the newspapers.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that last point. He contemplated Sirius’ words for several moments before nodding to himself. “I can accept that,” he said slowly. “I’m not totally comfortable with it, but I can understand it at least.” He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and moved back to safer ground.

“So, I can call you Dad?” he asked.

Sirius beamed. “Always,” he said.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 209th page.

>   
>  _11 June, 847_
> 
> _Beloved,_
> 
> _Sam is two today, and has shown his first signs of magic. He turned the Nag’s hair violet. She was most displeased for a moment before she cooed at him and delighted over how well it went with her skin tone. I can still hear Leo snickering; he fears, even under that mask of pleasure, that she will decide to keep it and he will be forced to look at her violet hair everyday. I can smell the fear on him._
> 
> _Sam still refuses to say ‘Mother’. He has come to call me ‘Fadder’ or even ‘Daddy’ sometimes. I am certain that this is Leo’s work, and rest assured that he will be hexed most horribly as soon as I am able to catch him alone. I refuse to be called ‘Daddy’, though, I admit, it is somewhat amusing._
> 
> _Yesterday the necromancer disappeared. The villagers say that he ventured outside the wards to answer a call and was abducted by the muggles. A search party was formed, but never sent out. They fear that they will not return, either. I do not blame them. Your death is still fresh in my mind._
> 
> _My research has, thusly, come to a halt. But do not fret, Lover, because I will persevere. There are other necromancers and there are other spells. I will see you again soon. I rub the spine of this journal and imagine that it is your spine instead—that you can feel my fingers dancing over your skin and you shiver at my touch. It will not be long._
> 
> _R_

ɤɣɤ

That night, they celebrated _everything._  
  
After the initial shock had settled into mild awkwardness, Sirius suggested that they continue with the plans they had made before the discovery of Harry’s true parentage. It was going to be tough for both of them to remember their new relationship, but they were determined to do so.

Sirius had mentioned that habits form relatively quickly, but that he would probably just called Harry ‘Kiddo’ all the time since it was easier, and in return, Harry could call him anything he wanted. Harry decided to stick with ‘Dad’ because it seemed to simultaneously please Sirius, but ‘Father’ and ‘Sirius’ pleased him, too. Sirius was just happy to have him around.

So far it wasn’t going too badly.

He hadn’t told anyone about it yet, not even Ron and Hermione, because they were still acclimating themselves to the information concerning his whereabouts. He figured he had plenty of time to let them know—especially since they were going to be visiting in a few days—or at least he hoped so. He’d only sent the letter off that afternoon.

The only problem, really, was that he’d made the mistake of allowing his father to make the plans. Sirius, apparently, had a well-hidden taste for fine cuisine, muggle witchcraft meet-ups, bowling and pubs. Fortunately, it was too late for bowling and Harry only hoped that his father soon forgot all about it.

It was, however, not too late to crash the witchcraft meeting, and that’s where they headed first, to his ultimate dismay. He felt a little awkward, as Sirius had requested—in a no questions asked sort of tone—that Harry dress for a night on the town.

He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and the black frockcoat when they portkeyed to an alley near the new-age bookstore in London where the meeting was to be held. Sirius, dressed similarly, led the way to the door, grinning like a fool.

“You know, your fa—er, Jamie, Remus and I used to come to these all the time when we were kids. It was a lot of fun; some of the stuff they talked about was great.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, amused. He really couldn’t see what the big deal was. So the muggles wanted to be wizards. What of it?

“Yeah,” Sirius grinned, opening the door and ushering Harry inside. “You’ll see.”

Harry hummed noncommittally and looked around. His clothes stood out a bit, and he wasn’t sure if that was comforting or discomforting. He was horribly underdressed. There was a group of about a dozen muggles—of varying ages and sexes—sitting in a circle. Some of them looked like regular muggles, but some of them were wearing factory-made cloaks of a surprising degree of accuracy. There was also one young girl who looked twice at the scar mostly hidden behind his Hufflepuff-tipped hair.

He bit his lip in embarrassment as his father sat him down in the circle, sprawling out next to him with a wolfish grin.

“Hello,” one of the muggles spoke up politely. “This is your first time?”

Sirius, still grinning, shook his head. “Not for me. I used to come all the time when I was younger. This is my son’s first time, though,” he smiled at Harry as he said ‘son’, and Harry smiled back.

“Oh, well welcome, and welcome back,” the muggle woman said, nodding at each of them. “My name is Moonflower Star and I lead the discussions.” There was a round of introductions ranging from ‘ShadowCat’ to ‘Blue Ravenfoot’, but the girl who’d noticed his scar was simply named ‘Amelia Woodlark’. He hazarded a guess that it was, in all actuality, her real name. The muggles accepted it as well.

“Sirius Black,” his father said rather blandly. The discussion group smiled and both of them realised that they probably thought Sirius’ name was one like theirs. It had all the right properties, anyway.

He stared back at them dumbly, then ducked his head to hide a grin, and mumbled, “Lightning Black.” Amelia snorted, the discussion group smiled warmly and Sirius elbowed him while he covered his mouth with his other hand.

“Getting the hang of it already, I see,” he whispered to his son. “James and Remus always traded off using ‘Ewe SwallowTiger’ and ‘Ruffled Emu’.” Harry snorted, and quickly turned it into a cough when the group looked at him.

“Apologies,” he muttered. Everyone smiled.

“Anyway,” Moonflower Star continued in a bright voice, “before you both joined us, we were discussing the pros and cons of working solitary versus working with a coven.”

“What’s a coven?” Harry asked. Sirius lifted his knees to his chest and pressed his mouth into his thigh to hide his laughter.

“Oh!” Moonflower exclaimed, sitting forward. “New to the craft, I see.”

Harry shrugged, Amelia ducked her head and Sirius grabbed a handful of the carpet. Twenty minutes later, he knew everything about the craft that was possible to learn in twenty minutes.

“So a coven would basically be thirteen of us wizards…”

“Witches,” another muggle corrected gently. “There is no such thing as wizards. The term ‘witch’ comes from a Celtic word which is actually masculine. We use ‘witch’ to signify a practitioner of either sex.”

Harry blinked. “Right, so it’s thirteen of us _witches_ pooling our magic to make the spell stronger, basically—is that right?” A multitude of nods. He turned to Sirius and whispered, “Does that really work?”

Sirius nodded, and they turned back to listen to the conversation. Most of the muggles liked to work by themselves—Sirius claimed that was because they didn’t want anyone to know their spells didn’t work—but some of them said they were looking to start a coven. One thing was certain though, after an hour listening to the various theories: spells took days, weeks, months to be completed and a lot of them had to be cast during certain moon cycles.

Harry wasn’t sure how he would feel if he could only levitate things on the waxing moon.

By eight, the meeting was over and he had to admit that it had been at least partially entertaining. Dinner was next, and since his father had made reservations at a fancy muggle restaurant nearby, they chose to walk.

“I can’t believe they have to light candles and perform a full ritual just to get a date,” Harry said once they were a few blocks away. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and laughed, “I bet that’s how Aunt Petunia landed Uncle Vernon.”

Sirius chuckled. “Yeah, it almost makes me feel bad for them that they don’t have magic. There’re a lot of wizards who don’t realise what a gift they have. Then you see those muggles who talk all about love and nature and ‘what goes around, comes around’ it makes you want to just point your wand at them and give them magic.”

Harry was thoughtful. “You know when the Smiths came to dinner and we talked about the difference between muggle and wizard life?” Sirius nodded. “Well,” Harry said slowly, “It kind of made me think about it, you know? The differences between a muggle and a wizard.

“Such as,” Harry continued, “what decides whether someone will be a wizard or a muggle? It can’t necessarily be hereditary, what with all the squibs and muggle-born, so I was thinking that it might be because muggles’ bodies are powered by electric currents and wizards’ bodies are powered with magical currents.”

“You mean, instead of electrical currents, it’s magical currents within us?” Sirius asked.

“Yeah,” Harry answered sheepishly. “It’s stupid, I know, but maybe that explains where squibs and muggle-born people come from. Like something happened when they were still _in utero_ that changed the wavelength of the energy in them.”

Sirius hummed. “I bet a lot of pure-blood families would pay a pretty sum to have it researched—especially if it was found that it could somehow be adjusted to give their squib children magic.”

Harry winced. “Yeah, I told Voldemort about it that night and he seemed to be thinking along the same lines…like he might actually look it up or something.” Harry shuddered. “I’d hate to be one of his guinea pigs…but it was just a theory; it’s not like anything could be done about it.”

Sirius stopped walking, and Harry, noticing, stopped and turned around. “What?” he asked confusedly.

Sirius’s eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth was twisted into some sort of confused look. “You talk to him a lot, don’t you? Voldemort, I mean.”

He was suddenly very uncomfortable, and it showed in the way that his legs moved jerkily as he started walking again. “Yeah, I mean, sometimes,” he said. “It used to be once a week or so, but it’s been almost nightly lately. I don’t know why. It just happens.”

Sirius looked at him oddly, but he had a fairly good idea what his father was actually thinking. “What else do you talk about?” his father asked, voice carefully neutral.

Harry cringed. He wasn’t very good at lying and he didn’t really want to lie to Sirius anyway. They had so much to work through already, and he didn’t want to complicate it by adding more lies and half-truths on top. Besides, he thought, it might be nice to have someone who knew what it felt like to have a dark lord in your head…or at least someone who wouldn’t judge him because some of his ideas didn’t fit in firmly with Dumbledore’s plan.

His father might not approve of any of it, but he wouldn’t condemn him—couldn’t condemn him. Harry was _family_ now. And that was important. Plus, he figured if Sirius had been willing to join the Death Eaters just to watch over Regulus then he couldn’t be totally against the idea of his son talking to Voldemort—especially since Harry couldn't really help it. The thought of _Occlumency_ lessons with Snape came to him, and he pushed them violently out of his mind.

He would’ve had to agree with at least the theory of it all to go even that far. Just like Snape, Harry suspected. Snape might not want Voldemort to win, but he wouldn’t have joined him at first if he didn’t believe at least some of it.

“Um,” he started. He wasn’t as nervous as before, but it was still a difficult subject to talk about. “Sometimes we talk about the Ministry and how bollocksed up it is. Sometimes we talk about Hogwarts. Once I got him to tell me about his life when he was growing up, actually.”

Sirius was not convinced. “That doesn’t sound like the sort of things dark lords would talk about…” he said.

Harry scowled. Of course he wouldn’t get off the hook so easily. “Well, we really did talk about those things, but it’s not what we usually talk about.” Sirius raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Mostly, he gloats about how he knows where I am and where all my friends live. Then he muses about the panicked state of the wizarding world. And then he usually asks me to join him.”

Sirius choked. “He knows where you are?” he asked, looking around frantically for any suspicious people. He saw none, sighed, and turned back to his son in anticipation.

“Usually,” Harry shrugged. “He knew I wasn’t with the Dursleys within a week and then he knew where River House was.” The sun was beginning to set by now and Harry squinted as he walked, glad he wasn’t wearing his glasses. The glare would’ve been terrible. “I think the Smiths told him, actually,” he said.

Sirius was gaping. “And you’re okay with this?” he asked in a panicked voice. He, obviously, had not expected the Smiths to be Death Eaters. Harry didn’t know if they were for sure, really—he’d only just thought of that right then. There was no telling how Voldemort found out.

“Doesn’t worry me,” he admitted. “The blood protection at the Dursley’s house has been void since fourth year when he took my blood. He goes on and on to his Death Eaters about catching me, but I don’t really think he cares. It’s a game to him; he’s got bigger things to worry about than me, you know. If he really wanted to kill me, he could’ve done it a hundred times over by now.” He laughed, suddenly feeling very brave.

“I even told him the prophecy and he still didn’t seem to care very much. He was going on and on about all the different possible ways it could be interpreted—like it was Rococo art or something.”

That didn’t comfort Sirius at all, but it did give him something to think about. It would have to be saved for later, however, as they had just reached the restaurant. It had two Michelin stars, and he’d been looking forward to visiting it since he got out of Azkaban and saw a grand-opening notice in a newspaper near Privet Drive.

He was going to enjoy it without thinking about the consequences of having a son he didn’t know how to raise, or what a dark lord might do to that son if he ever caught him. He could think of those things later…those horrible flashes of fear that crossed his mind—images of his _son_ under _Crucio_ or strung up on rafters and bleeding horribly. It was not the time to worry.

“After you,” Sirius said, bowing as he held the door open. Harry laughed, and smacked him as he stepped through.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 256th page.

>   
>  _10 July, 847_
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _The necromancer was found today. He was crucified like a commoner. The villagers’ torches and wands are already lit. They have vengeance on their minds; I can smell it in the air, and it smells beautiful._
> 
> _R_

ɤɣɤ

  


Dinner went smoothly, and afterwards Harry and Sirius port-keyed to the antechamber of _Levitation_ , a wizarding bar owned and operated by a couple of muggle-born wizards. It was relatively new, but already business was so thriving that the _Anti-Incendio Authorities_ had to ensure nightly that they weren’t overpopulating the bar.

“This feels weird—being of age I mean,” Harry said, running his fingers through his fringe. Beside him Sirius snorted, and hurried him through the doors. A smile came to both of their lips as they took in their surroundings.

It was dark. Cosy booths lined the walls, and high-top tables were spaced sporadically about. There was a decent-sized stage on one side where Harry knew local wizarding bands might play, and directly across from the stage was the actual bar itself. It was the only area inside that was illuminated by more than very faint candle light, but Harry was sure that multi-coloured fairies and static colour-altered _Lumos_ spells would light the stage if anyone played there.

The people sitting around the bar looked as if their skin was blue, which was from the lighting—shining up from beneath the surface of the counter—of course, but it still reminded him of a lot of young forest trolls with blue skin. Sirius put a hand on his shoulder and steered him to a hovering bar stool.

“I have a feeling that this isn’t what most fathers do when their son turns seventeen,” Sirius said, “but I’m not most fathers.” Harry noticed, from the corner of his eye, that there was a very definite gleam in his father’s grey eyes. He coughed to hide a laugh, and settled onto the stool.

“What to drink, then?” Sirius continued, speaking to himself. It was hard to hear him due to the loud music and the rambunctious, drunken cheers and talking of the other patrons, but Sirius didn’t seem to care. His eyes suddenly lit up, enhanced by the blue glow of the counter, and he decided, “Two Level-headed Leviosas,” just as the bartender walked up. The barkeep nodded, busy, and walked away to make them.

“We’ll start you off light,” his father explained with a smirk. “Leviosas make you feel a little _light-headed_ , but you’re still _level-headed_ even after you’ve had a few. Like you’re floating—good for beginners.”

Harry laughed and sipped his drink when the bartender returned with it. It wasn’t bad, he decided, but still much different from a Butterbeer. He tried several more, slightly more spirited drinks, and chatted with his father for a couple hours. Sometime during the night, a band led by a veela took the stage, to much applause and fanfare, and they both quite enjoyed the siren-like music.

All in all, he decided it was a great way to spend a birthday. It wasn’t every day that you get presents, your godfather is cleared of criminal charges, your godfather turns out to be your father, and you spend the evening getting pissed and listening to good music. And the conversation was good too, he decided. There was so much that they didn’t know about each other and the alcohol certainly helped ease the tension.

Of course, that couldn’t last. It was when his father finished telling a spectacularly crass, and therefore spectacularly funny, joke that Harry tipped his head back laughing so hard he thought he might fall off the stool—and someone saw his scar. Someone gasped, and Harry abruptly sobered, wary.

“Harry Potter!” a witch in a halter top squealed. “It’s Harry Potter! And Sirius Black!” Harry groaned and tried to hide his face in his hands, but it was no use because the witch and two boys, a bit older than Harry, approached quickly. “A pleasure to meet you Misters Potter and Black…the _Daily Prophet_ reported your _tragic_ stories so well this morning that I feel as if I know you myself. I can’t _believe_ the Ministry convicted you without trial, Mr Black. It’s unspeakable!”

Sirius chuckled awkwardly and tried to seem gracious while Harry couldn’t even manage a fake smile. Why couldn’t he go anywhere without being hounded?

“And it’s your birthday, too!” the witch continued obliviously. Suddenly she was roughly pushed aside by one of the two boys, and Harry was grateful even if it meant he would have to speak to him instead. At least he seemed to be less enthusiastic.

“Sorry about that,” the boy said with a smile. He held out his hand and Harry took it weakly as he said, “The name’s Greg Killian. Like the beer; I’m muggle-born, you see, and my great-uncle owns the brewery.”

Harry had only a brief moment to wonder why anyone would offer that kind of information in an introduction before Greg shooed the other two away and plopped down on the empty stool next to Harry.

“So,” he said, turning to them with a smile, “Happy birthday; let me buy you lot another round. Tried the Killian’s yet?”

“Um,” Harry tried and failed. Sirius coughed uncomfortably and stared into his glass. “No, it’s okay, really,” he finally said. “Thanks, anyway, though.”

Greg scoffed. “Nonsense!” He turned to the bartender and snapped his fingers impatiently. “Oi! Barman! Three Killian’s!” He turned back to Harry and Sirius with another infuriating smile. “So, you’re a half-blood, eh?”

Harry’s jaw dropped and beside him, his father’s face twisted in incredulity. How was he supposed to answer that? Should he answer it? He didn’t think so. He really didn’t see the point in it anyway, regardless of whether his mother had been muggle-born or not, and even if he did, he wasn’t about to tell this bloke.

“I completely understand,” Greg continued, nodding as the bartender returned with their beers. “It’s rough being muggle-born. I’d imagine it’s pretty much the same being a half-blood,” he added. Harry and Sirius stared as Greg continued, “All those smug pure-bloods—no offence Mr Black—always saying they’re better than everyone.”

Greg scoffed, tipped his beer back and swallowed heavily. “I’ve told everyone in my family about being a wizard and they think it’s just fantastic. My aunt has me come over and whip her house into shape when she’s having company, and my dad’s friend from work pays me to show his kids magic tricks during the summer. Rabbits out of a hat and stuff, you know. I’ve told ‘em all about the bigotry,” he said with a scowl. “It’s ridiculous…I’ve got magic just like the rest of ‘em, you know, Potter?”

Harry continued to stare. Sirius broke the silence with a polite cough, and said, “Are you saying that just about every muggle you know knows that you’re a wizard?” he asked.

Greg nodded. “That’s right. Why hold back, eh? Flaunt it if you got it, right?”

“That’s illegal,” Sirius said patiently. Harry commended him for it; he couldn’t even make his mouth work he was so stunned. “If the Ministry finds out, you’ll serve at least a year in Azkaban. It’s not any fun,” Sirius added.

Greg waved him away dismissively. “They won’t catch me, and so what if they do? It’s about time those pure-bloods running the Ministry learnt that just because our family’s not magical doesn’t mean we shouldn’t show ‘em the magic we got. You understand, don’t you, Potter? You were raised by muggles. I bet you showed ‘em lots of things.”

“No.” Harry found that he couldn’t manage more than that one word.

“But it’s dangerous,” Sirius insisted. “We can’t cohabitate with muggles,” he said shaking his head in slowly. “It could cause another panic.”

Greg laughed and reached around Harry to slap Sirius on the back. “Rubbish! Stories you tell your kids to get ‘em to go to bed. I say we let all the muggles know. I’ve got my great-uncle considering some ad ideas I’ve thrown around that feature magic and wizards. Great for business.”

Harry wasn’t sure if that kind of story would get him to sleep, but he still couldn’t force himself to speak. Besides, his father seemed to be doing okay without him.

Only he wasn’t. Sirius tugged on his elbow and stood up carefully. “Thanks for the beers,” he said with an over-enthusiastic smile. “But we’ve got to run. Long day tomorrow, you understand.” He slapped a few galleons down on the counter and ushered Harry out quickly, before Greg even had a chance to respond. The next thing he knew, he was being tugged away by his navel and landing in a semi-drunken heap at the manor.

“Fucking mudblood!” Sirius hissed, ripping his jacket off and throwing it down on the floor. “I can’t believe the nerve of that kid!”

Harry gaped. “What the hell? You just called that bloke a…you know.”

“There’s a difference between mudbloods and muggle-born, Harry. Even pure-bloods can _act_ like mudbloods—like wizards who don’t care about keeping our world safe,” his father said.

Harry regarded him. “Don’t use that word.”

Sirius spun around. “It’s ignorant arseholes like him that get us killed.”

“You just can’t use it,” Harry insisted. “It’s not right and you should know better than to do that especially since you’re a _parent_ now. Stop being a cock and just don’t say it!” he said.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. He growled, and said, “What was that? I might not be the best father, but I do know that you aren’t going to talk to me that way. I wouldn’t have allowed it even if I wasn’t your father.”

Harry sneered. “And you suppose that saying ‘mudblood’ is any better?”

“Under the circumstances,” Sirius hissed quietly.

“Under the circumstances, you should not be a fucking hypocrite.” Harry was being childish, he knew, but he didn’t care.

In a flash, Sirius had his wand pulled and was slashing it in front of him. “ _Aufero lingua_ ,” he snarled, and Harry felt his tongue melt into the bottom of his mouth and disappear. His eyes widened, and Sirius said, “If you had said that to my parents or James’ parents or even the fucking Weasley’s parents, you would be regretting it for a week. Here’s your first lesson: Impudence is not tolerated among wizarding families, no matter what muggles might stand for.”

Harry could feel his anger rising steadily higher—Sirius was really getting into this parenting thing. He was so infuriated that Sirius had removed his tongue that he could almost feel his skin burning. He thought _‘Finite Incantatem’_ with everything he had, and was only half-amazed that it worked. He was past the point of realizing that, for the first time, Sirius was actually disciplining him, and moving steadily closer to furious. His tongue reappeared, and he pulled out his wand.

Only he didn’t know what to do with it. This wasn’t a fight with Malfoy. He couldn’t just jinx his father. Harry took a deep breath and tried to figure out what had just happened. Sirius had his back turned to him and was quickly conjuring and destroying things—china plates, dolls, furniture, plush animals.

“I…” he started and then faltered. He had no idea what to say, and some of the curses coming from his father were frighteningly morbid.

Sirius turned around again at the sound of his voice. His eyes were still angry, but he at least seemed to have come out of his rage.

“It’s your blood,” Sirius said, as if it were some great revelation. Then, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, muttered, “I’m sorry,” and quickly left the room. Harry watched him go, only half-aware of how badly his hands were shaking.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “aufero lingua” – Latin for ‘remove tongue’.


	7. Black, Sirius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/24/11.

  


The next morning, Harry woke up feeling wretched. Not only had he lost so much control of himself that he been a complete prat, but he was feeling worn out from wordlessly removing that hex. He’d never known magic took so much energy, but then he hadn't done any wandless magic since he was a child. Furthermore, his father had _disciplined_ him, and as he’d never been disciplined by a parent before, it didn’t sit well with him—especially as he was seventeen years old now.

And that was another thing that he felt awkward about. He could see it now; yes, he might have understood that Sirius was really his father from all of the evidence presented to him, but he hadn’t really accepted it. He wanted a parent—any parent, really—and latched on to the knowledge in the same way he’d latched on to learning Sirius wanted him to live with him in third year. He was seventeen now, an adult, but he still wanted to have a parent who cared for him.

He didn’t think he could overcome that feeling just by becoming legal.

Now, everything had sunk in, so to speak. The hurried and excited events from the day before seemed so awkward to him now. He rather thought that both he and Sirius handled the situation admirably, but he soon realised that it was because they were both a little lonely. That wasn’t a good reason for accepting the parent you never knew.

Yet, Sirius knew him very well—especially considering how little time he’d actually they’d had to get to know each other. The more he thought about that, the more he realised that Sirius knew him so well because they were, abstractly, very alike. He could see it clearly now, and he realised that even though other people might find it strange that neither of them had gone into a great deal of shock over the revelations, he hadn’t and Sirius hadn’t.

Nothing was ever normal for him, so if he wanted to just shrug and accept it, what of it? Sirius was the same way. He liked that.

But now, there were other things on his mind. Why had Sirius retaliated so strongly and why had he been able to wandlessly and wordlessly remove the hex? Something niggled in the back of his mind telling him that he knew why, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. There were, admittedly, a few things he didn’t know about his father—actually, there were a lot of things. He knew next to nothing about any of his family. He resolved to fix that.

While he was at it, he reckoned that a letter to Dumbledore wouldn’t go amiss, either. Both he and his father should have made a more direct effort to finding out why Sirius wasn’t actually dead and who—if anyone—was dead in his place, whether the Headmaster was looking into it or not.

Snape’s words were prickling his mind—telling him that he was overlooking something very obvious. Sirius had never been one to overlook obvious things.

“Fred!” he said.

There was a pop, and the house-elf appeared in his usual forest green pillowcase toga, looking up at Harry with bulbous eyes. He had several pieces of wood in his hands and a lacy yellow cloth strung over his shoulder, looking rather nervous indeed. Harry cocked his head to the side.

“What’s going on?”

Fred bit his lip, and looked around worriedly as he answered, “Fred’s _lovely_ Ginger is saying scary things,” he said.

“Such as?” Harry pressed curiously.

The house-elf flinched. “Ginger is saying little house-elf is coming soon. Ginger is saying that Fred must assemble cradle that masters so graciously bought for Fred and Ginger and little elf or Ginger is going to make Fred very sorry. Fred doesn’t want to be sorry. Ginger makes Fred sorry all the time and Fred’s always very sorry afterwards.”

Harry winced in sympathy. “Oh. Well, could you bring my breakfast to the library along with some parchment and quills? If you do, you can go back to finishing the cradle and I’ll tell Ginger you’ve been working very hard on it and that you deserve a reprieve. Do you know if it will be a boy or a girl?”

Fred brightened slightly at the mention of a reprieve, but shook his head. “Ginger hasn’t decided. Mother house-elves get to pick boy or girl house-elves, and Ginger is threatening Fred with a girl house-elf if he isn’t good. Fred doesn’t want a girl house-elf. Women is frightening; one is enough for Fred,” he added with a shudder.

Harry hadn’t known that, but it was interesting. He felt rather sorry for Fred right then, but then again, he always felt kind of sorry for Fred. He was kind of like Neville. “Well, we’ll just have to convince her that she wants a boy then, won’t we?” Fred cautiously nodded.

“Fred would appreciate it very much,” he said. “Fred is going to take Little Master’s breakfast to the library with parchment and quills now before Ginger realises he is missing.” With that, he snapped his fingers and disappeared. Yawning, Harry got up from his bed, pulled the blankets back so Fred wouldn’t have extra work, and got dressed for the day before heading down to the library.

He had some things to do before he and Sirius had their next conversation. He suspected his father might be feeling the same way.

ɤɣɤ

Breakfast was waiting for him already when Harry made it to the library. He sipped his tea and levitated the breakfast tray to follow him up the stairs. Sunlight was pouring in through the skylights and filtering down onto the carpeting at the top of the stairs. He set his tea and breakfast tray down on the writing desk and pulled out the parchment and quills Fred had set on top.

Harry chewed on the tip of his quill as he considered what to write. He needed to word this letter very carefully and he’d never been very good at being subtle. He tried to think back to classes and remember how the Ravenclaw and Slytherin students had acted. They had always seemed rather subtle, so maybe he should try to think like one of them.

It wasn’t as easy as he expected it would have been, though he did realise that all of the Slytherins were subtle—even Crabbe and Goyle in their own way—and that the only students from other houses that were, seemed to have one thing in common: they were all raised by pure-blooded families. His friend Ron, it seemed, was the exception and not the rule. It wasn’t a very strong theory, but just the same, maybe he should wait and have his father help him word the letter? Sirius was raised pure-blooded, after all.

He dismissed the notion almost immediately. If there was anyone less subtle than himself, it would be Sirius Black—and it was a stupid theory anyway. He was reading into things.

With a resigned sigh, he dipped his quill in the ink and pressed it to the parchment.  


>   
>  _  
> Headmaster Dumbledore,_
> 
> _I am writing to ask a favour of you. As I have learned from your letter and Professor Snape’s visit, you are aware that I am no longer staying with the Dursleys and have moved into River House with my_

Godfather? Father? Should he admit that so soon? Or even in a letter at all? As much as he wanted to trust Dumbledore, Harry was still having doubts. No, it would be best to wait. Dumbledore probably already knew anyway, so there was no reason to admit it in a letter.

But then that brought up another doubt. Did Dumbledore know? Could he have known all along that Sirius had been having an affair with Lily Potter? Had that been the reason he sent Sirius away for the eight months it took Lily to date and become engaged to James Potter?  
_  
True love, indeed,_ he thought. _I doubt anyone could break up with someone they’d been dating for nearly three years just to marry someone else eight months later and still sleep with the first person._

No, something was definitely off about that. Harry re-inked his quill. It had dried out during his contemplation.  


>   
>  _  
> my godfather. At your earliest convenience, could you spare an hour or two of your time for some questions I have? Tea-time is usually the easiest time to catch Sirius and me in the house, but the house-elves could find us regardless. I was wondering specifically about things that happened two years ago at the Ministry._
> 
> _The floo address is ‘River House, Antechamber’ and the password is included._

He hesitated only slightly before he signed the letter ‘Harry Potter’ and called Hedwig to him to take it. She nipped his fingers affectionately, stole his bacon, and flew out through an open window before he could scold her.

With an exaggerated sigh, he turned and faced the bookshelves. He knew what he wanted to _know_ , but he didn’t know where to look to learn it. It was, most likely, going to be a very long and difficult afternoon. He only hoped that his father would give him the space to do all this on his own before they started to really form some sort of parent-child relationship; right now, Sirius was still just his friend.

From his visits before, he knew that the third level—where he was right then—was where the Black family history and dark arts books were. Fortunately, or unfortunately however he chose to see it, he was interested in a combination of those two things. He almost wished Hermione was there to help him; he really was no good at cross-referencing.

Harry pursed his lips in determination. He wasn’t an idiot; he could do this without Hermione’s help. He just needed to think logically and narrow it down. He had a suspicion that something Sirius had mentioned the night before had been literal and not metaphorical, and if it was correct, it might explain what had happened after they returned home from Levitation: _“It’s your blood.”_

His father could have been talking about something completely different, but now, Harry wondered. Was magic really in the blood? And what did that mean?

He finally just closed his eyes and grabbed the first book his fingers came to in the family history section. The book he picked was called _Wizarding Families: Past, Present and Future_ , and it seemed like a decent place to start. It was thick, heavy and bound in old, worn leather, but was most assuredly a self-updating book as the copyright page included every year from 1300 to the current year.

Harry settled in to read, determined to find out everything he could about this family. He’d never even bothered looking up the Potter lines—even when the Hogwarts library probably had them in loads of books—but it had always seemed so far away before. Now, the name ‘Black’ was right there in his face, along with another person sharing that name. The need to know about himself overwhelmed him.

Hours later, he understood.

Or at least, he understood _better_. He could not say he fully understood everything he had read in _Wizarding Families_ , but he understood more than he had before. One thing he was sure of was that he had been right: it was in blood. Further than that, he couldn’t say anything for certain. The book had explained that all pure-blooded families had a talent for either light or dark magic that needed to be exercised regularly, in addition to neutral magic like levitation charms, to prevent madness, so that explained why Sirius cast dark magic when he hated it. Ridiculous.

It did not explain why Bellatrix was still insane, however.

Additionally, it explained that he would be able to master those same hexes and curses much easier than he had mastered Charms or Transfigurations. That was probably why he’d been able to remove the tongue hex from the night before, he realised: with the help of another book, he’d found that it was indeed a dark magic hex. So he had a natural inclination for dark magic; it was a scary thought. But more than that, it excited him just to have something _special_ about him that wasn’t about him, but about his whole family—and that frightened him more. Had Voldemort’s wizard-side of the family been dark-magic inclined?

But there had also been several passing references to magical inheritances at the age of seventeen. The book did not say what each family tended to pass down because it was private to each individual family, but it hinted that certain families had more desirable inheritances. The Black family appeared to be one of those.

But after all of that, he still didn’t completely understand. He needed to talk to his father.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 412th page.  


>   
>  __  
> 25 December, 848
> 
> _Beloved,_
> 
> _I beg you, do not fret – We shall be reunited soon, and then these magic-less nights will be over forever. Until we are, I am missing you every little minute of the day and night._
> 
> _Maybe you will not understand this, but sometimes when I miss you most, it is hardest to write to you – and I have made myself because I fear that if I do not, then I will forget – Just the ache of it all – and I cannot tell you. It is too much. If we were together, you would feel how strong it is – you were so charming when you're melancholy. And you were melancholy often._
> 
> _I loved your sad tenderness – when I hurt you – It is one of the reasons I could never be sorry when we quarrelled – and they bothered you so – Those dear, dear little fusses, when I always kissed you thoroughly to make you forget._
> 
> _Beloved – there is nothing in all the world I want but you and your love – All the magical things are nothing. The magic is nothing. The skies, the flowers are nothing. I fear that I will live a foul, colourless existence if I do not revive you soon – because you would soon love me less – and less – and I would do anything – anything – to keep your heart for my own – I do not want to live – I want to love first, and live incidentally – Why do you not feel that I am trying?_
> 
> _The ones who practice the old magic have written to us offering aid against the muggles. Leo wrote back and told them that their services were unnecessary as we had been fighting the muggles for three years and are doing fine at the moment. I scolded him for his stubbornness and he relented._
> 
> _The old magic wizards will arrive at the first of the year in the village. They have said that they will be bringing a member of each major house of magic. You cannot imagine how much this excites me as the Mauvaisefoi house is known for their talent for necromancy. I will ask them for help now that I have had time to study on my own. I am sure it can be done—they say it cannot, but I am sure of it._
> 
> _I have not seen you wandering the halls as you used to when you lived – stalking through corridors and passageways while you ruminated and brooded so methodically. Even the ghosts still hush in your absence. It will not be long—with the Mauvaisefoi family and their talents, I cannot fail._
> 
> _You will come to me, Lover, when you are able – Do not – do not ever think of the things you did not give me – You trusted me with the dearest heart of all – and it is so much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had. I shall thank you for it humbly when I succeed. I will – I know I will._
> 
> _How did you think deliberately of death without me? Were you not frightened? Did you not try to wait for me? I would have followed, had I been able. Yet instead, I shall revive you – I shall gift you life as Merlin himself would have, had he the chance._
> 
> _If I should fail – O dearest – my dearest – It would be like losing my magic. I would. I would have no purpose in life – just a pretty ornament. Do you not think I was made for you? I feel like you enchanted me for yourself – and I was created by you – to be worn – I want you to wear me, like an amulet or a charm or a button._
> 
> _And then, when we are alone again, I want to help – to know that you cannot do anything without me. You cannot die without me._
> 
> _It has been three years today since your passing and I have only just now gained access to your quarters – exactly as you left them – and mine in the towers are so muddled and ambiguously organized. My research is flourishing._
> 
> _Your son has grown. He has not met you, but I think that he misses you terribly—he no longer calls me ‘Daddy’. I think he misses you terribly. I’ve said that._
> 
> _I miss you terribly._
> 
> _Yours,  
>  R._

ɤɣɤ

Harry and Sirius had retired to the drawing room after dinner and settled into comfortable chairs facing each other. The silence grew as they stared at each other, both trying to decide where would be the best place to start, when Sirius could take it no more. He never said that he was good with verbal confrontations. He was much more comfortable hexing someone or playing semi-cruel pranks.

He thought back to the night he’d led Snape to Remus at the Shrieking Shack, and could not unearth even the smallest amount of guilt. Snape had deserved it. He supposed his mother would be proud of him for that: he was not afraid of destroying an enemy. He was not afraid of murder. He trampled the thought before it could fully take hold of him. He was a father now—the father of the Boy-Who-Lived at that. He could not afford to let any of that consume him, more than it had already, anyway.

Clumsily, he stood up and shuffled over to the liquor cabinet near the fireplace. He needed something to take his mind off everything warring in his mind. The last three days had rendered him nothing but a vengeful Slytherin, and he had no idea why. Perhaps it had been Snape’s visit—although that had been weeks ago.

Surely only being reminded of his past transgressions could not do that to him. But it seemed that it had—Lily had been his, and where he should have felt remorse and guilt for betraying James, he felt nothing but loss and anger.

Anger for James for taking Lily to begin with, even though James had never known that she wasn’t meant to be his—anger for Lily for dying, anger for Dumbledore for sending him away instead of leaving him where he could have watched her more closely. And prevented it.

He stared inside the liquor cabinet and let his eyes rove over each individual bottle. They had not been touched in over two decades, and every one of them was a tempting choice. With a malicious grin, he settled on an unopened bottle of Ogden’s Three-Star-Cognac from 1901, and poured it into a snifter with the Black Family Crest on the glass. As an afterthought, he poured a second glass for his son. He was, after all, of age now, and if he’d been raised properly, Sirius would have had him tasting fine spirits of all sorts long before. Pure-blooded wizards always knew how to pick a good drink. Even James would have agreed with that.

“I imagine that we might each need a glass or two of this to make it through the night,” he said by way of explanation. After lunch, Harry had confronted him and given him a rough outline of what he wanted to talk about. Sirius had not known how to say no.

His son took a hesitant sip and grimaced, but did not complain or set the drink aside.

There was a cough above the fireplace, and Sirius turned, smiling as he noticed both Mr and Mrs Evans had poured themselves a glass of red from the stores in their portrait and were lounging in their chairs, watching. Laurel Evans was much more subtle.

They stared at each other for several more minutes, during which Sirius swirled his cognac around in the glass and inhaled the mixture of flavours, and then Harry exhaled deeply—seeming to steel himself for whatever he was about to say.

“I want you to teach me the spells you used the other night,” he said.

Sirius sputtered and coughed on his drink. “What?” he said, jumping up from his chair. “Not a chance.” That wasn’t what his son had hinted at, at all.

Harry only stared back at him.

“Why?” Sirius finally asked, faltering only slightly. “You don’t need to know them. It’s not necessary.” Of course, Sirius knew it was necessary, but he still felt awkward with the situation. He had no idea how to be a parent, but he was sure that his own parents had not done a good job. He didn’t want to end up like either of them.

“But I want to know them,” Harry said. “And you want to teach me. You want me to understand.”

Sirius could not argue with those words, no matter how much he wanted to try. The dark magic was in his very blood, and the longer he went without casting _something_ dark, the more forcefully he ached to do so. It had been bred into him, and he knew it would be bred into Harry as well. But he hated that, and he would fight it as much as he could.

It was probably why his son’s mind always gravitated to Voldemort through their connection even though they were sworn enemies. The magic ran through his veins—pulsing and calling him always—and through his heritage, he was helpless to stop it.

Sirius looked up at the portrait of Lily's parents speculatively and wondered if Harry had perhaps gotten a double dose of it. He, admittedly, never knew how the Evans' practised magic.

The best he could do was to accept it—acknowledge and understand it so that he might learn to live with it. It was in his veins, yes, but he did not have to let it compel him. Sirius was living proof of that. Yes, he had to use dark magic every once in a while or he would get restless, but that didn’t mean he had to use it on other people. Harry could be the same way—Sirius was sure he would be. If he refused to teach his son what he wanted to know, he would learn it elsewhere and use it anyway. He couldn’t help using it.

Guilt and desire to be Light were not factors in this. Blood was. Sirius was surprised his son had lasted as long as he had. It would have driven any other dark wizard mad.

Sirius sighed heavily and slumped back into his chair. “You need to learn the theory of it first,” he said. “The history and the _whys_ and _hows_ of it all.” Harry nodded, as if he expected that all along. Sirius realised he might have just been duped by his own son—his own Gryffindor son. He was almost proud, and then he remembered that being proud of his son for fooling him was too Slytherin to even consider. “You should have learned this long ago,” he added with a resigned sigh.

Harry sipped his cognac, and did not flinch this time. It seemed as though he knew what Sirius was thinking—Sirius wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he gave a faint smile and gathered his thoughts.

“First of all,” he said, “you need to know that there is no strict line between light magic and dark magic because magic is not intrinsically good or bad it just _is_. It’s magic…it has no morals or obligations or emotions—it’s just energy.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He had plenty of questions about that—some concerning his own thoughts on muggle-born and squibs—but he wasn’t going to ask them, yet. Sirius was finally telling him something useful, and he didn’t want to break his father’s stride. Instead, he sat back in his chair comfortably and sipped the Ogden’. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

“ _Then_ ,” his father continued, “you need to understand why some magic is _classified_ dark and some not. I could give you all sorts of complicated reasons and rationales, but in the end, it comes down to separating the magic that’s natural in the universe. There’s wild magic, and there’s tame magic, so to speak—old and new magic.

“It’s still just magic,” Sirius insisted, “made from the same energy and whatnot, but wild magic is harder to control. So hard, in fact, that it requires emotional support to be welded. It’s magic that can only be exploited if you’re feeling something intensely—love, hate, jealously, anger, lust, compassion, remorse, pity, panic, terror. To use it, it draws on your own magical core, but that’s not _enough_ for it to work. It’s _wild_ , you understand, so it’s going to take _more_ than just your magical core to weld. You’ve got to want it or need it badly enough.”

Sirius paused thoughtfully, sipping the last of his drink and considering his next words.

“You said a few weeks ago that you tried to use _Crucio_ on Bellatrix in the Department of Mysteries, and that it didn’t work.” Sirius said. “There’s a reason for that.”

By now, Harry was leaning forward slightly in his chair, listening intently. Sirius had never thought he was the kind of person that would want to learn so avidly; that it was the subject matter intriguing him so much was both a frightening and prideful feeling.

Sirius locked eyes with his son. This part was very important. No matter how much he joked around or how much the two of them danced around the awkwardness of their new relationship, he needed what he was going to say next to have an impact on his son.

“You didn’t want her to hurt badly enough; that’s why the curse didn’t work. It’s dark magic because it’s designed to fulfil your desires. If you were trying to cast _Crucio_ , your desire should have been to hurt her. Merely hating her will not work—despising, loathing, abhorring…those won’t work. You have to want her to _hurt_.

“But at the same time,” Sirius said, leaning back, “had you known that at the time, I have a feeling it would have worked. You could have _made_ yourself want to hurt her enough if you’d known how the spell worked. That’s what I mean when I say you have to know how to control it. These spells are all meant to fulfil purposes, and you have to understand your desires before you’re able to carry the magic.”

Sirius stopped, refilled his drink and studied his son. He had to admit to himself that it felt good to be teaching his son; it felt like it should—like he’d been born to pass on his knowledge. He felt accomplished, something that he admittedly did not feel very often. Harry was looking thoughtful; his head tilted slightly to the side as he filtered through the new information and tried to apply it to something he was familiar with.

“So why do you cast so much dark magic? I read something earlier today that suggested you would go mad if you didn’t.”

Sirius let out a harsh, agitated breath and tried to formulate an answer. He couldn’t remember how his own parents had explained it, but he had a feeling that they did a much better job than he was doing. He and Regulus had seemed to grasp it immediately, but maybe that had been because of the way they were raised.

“Because the Black family affinity is wandless Old—wild, dark—magic; that’s why you were able to remove the tongue-vanishing curse wordlessly and wandlessly,” he finally said. It was weak, he knew, but he couldn’t explain it much better than that. Remembering, he realised that that had been exactly how his father explained it to him, after all. He’d understood. “Because,” he continued slowly, unsure if he was making any sense, “some people are naturally better at it than others, and when they have children, it filters down into their children’s blood making it easier for them to cast it. It’s inherent understanding—I understood that I needed to be hungry and desperate to cast those beheading hexes when I went camping with my father and brother. I didn’t need to be told.”

He cocked his head to the side and studied his son. “I don’t think you needed to be told, either. You understood—maybe without even _understanding_ that you understood—that you needed to be angry at me to remove that curse last night because I was angry when I cast it.” He shrugged. “The intent of the spell defines it.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d go mad if you didn’t use those curses,” Harry insisted, but his voice wasn’t accusing.

Sirius exhaled. He really was no good at this fathering thing. He paused for a moment to reflect that James probably would have done a better job, but immediately trampled the thought. He would prove James wrong, wherever he was. He could learn to be a good father.

“Because it’s part of you. The wild magic may be hard to use, but it’s in your blood; it filters through your veins and wants you to use it. You were born from a father who used it, and a mother who used it at least, if not her family,” he said with a glance at the Evans’ portrait. “It’s in you now, and it’ll demand to be used…especially since you’ve used it now.”

Harry scoffed. “My mother didn’t use dark magic,” he said. There was a duet of uncomfortable coughing from the Evans’ portrait, but he ignored it.

Surprisingly, Sirius only smirked. It looked wholly out of place on his face right then. “You think so?” he asked. Harry had a moment of doubt, but shook his head. He was sure. “What do you think all of that _mother’s love_ stuff was, then?” his father asked. “It was wild magic—the kind that favours you and every other dark wizard or witch. She used her _love_ to save you.”

Harry felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. That couldn’t be true, could it? His mother was good. She used her love to save him not hurt him…that couldn’t be dark magic, but then his father had said…something completely different. Was that really the only difference between light magic and dark magic?

“Well then why did you try to stop using dark magic then?” he asked.

“Because it was taking over my family, and I didn’t want to pass that down.” His father smiled self-mockingly and added, “It made me too wild, but in the end, I wasn’t that much of a Gryffindor after all. It was pretty cowardly to try to ignore it instead of control it.”

Harry shook his head jerkily. This was no time for self-doubt. He had too many questions. “But _why_ the stigma if it’s really only just wild magic? Why are people so afraid of it?”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Why?” he asked incredulously. “Because they’re afraid, and their fear leads to more fear and so on. It’s one big circle. But I suppose you want the original reason? It’s the emotions. It takes emotions to cast it—not like _Reducto_ or _Incendio_ or _Wingardium Leviosa_ —and it takes _strong_ emotions. Think of what a bunch of Gryffindors would do with that. That’s why Slytherins are so self-controlled; if they let their emotions take over them, they might do something like I did to Snape.”

 _Oh._ Well that certainly made sense. Why hadn’t he figured that out on his own?

Suddenly, his father’s head snapped up. “The wards,” Sirius said at the same time as Harry’s scar, hidden mostly by his hair, twinged. “Someone unauthorized has touched the wards.”

  


They jumped up and rushed from the room, sprinting down stairs and hallways. Harry, in an abstract sort of way, was both pleased and surprised to note that his father was not even breathing heavily when the huge, ornate front doors came into view and he yelled a series of unlocking and opening spells that finally resulted in the butterfly doors swinging outward just as they reached them.

It was exciting, really, though if he’d stopped to think about it, Harry probably would have realised it was more than reckless to run outside their house, wands blazing, without properly identifying the situation first. He didn’t pause to consider that, and instead looked over his shoulder at his father who had finally fallen a step behind, and hurtled down the steps and over the lawns.

It was very late, most likely near midnight by the position of the moon, and dark except for faint light from nearby Edinburgh and the stars. Neither of them could see much, but Harry had an idea who was there—his scar was actually _tickling_ him, as if it were teasing him. The sensation increased the further he ran. He wondered if Voldemort was amused for some reason.

Then, he saw him—one heavily cloaked figure standing amid the fen at the very edge of the wards. He skidded to a halt several feet away, and had to put out a hand to balance himself when his father nearly toppled over him. Voldemort was there, and he was enjoying himself.

And facing Voldemort, small and angry and very much pregnant, was Ginger. She had one hand on her hip and the other was waggling a finger chidingly in front of her as she scolded Voldemort for being rude.

“Ginger does not _care_ ,” Ginger exclaimed, stomping a foot, and sounding very much like she’d repeated that several times before, “who you are Mr Voldymort! Ginger is not allowing rude wizards to disturb her masters at _this time of night_! If Mr Voldymort, _sir_ , wants to visit, duel or kill her masters, he will have to come at a respectable hour and follow _proper wizarding procedures_. Mr Voldymort is impolite and has no honour!”

“Delightful!” Voldemort crowed, clapping his scaly hands. He noticed Harry and Sirius and turned to them with a manic grin.

“I admit I didn’t expect quite such a warm welcome,” Voldemort said almost pleasantly. Harry couldn’t see his eyes, but he knew they would be sparkling in malicious glee. He paused, head tilted to the side as he waited for some sort of reaction from Harry—whose eyes were narrowed—or Sirius—who was too flabbergasted to speak.

When it became obvious that he would not get one, Voldemort said, “Well? Aren’t you going to welcome me into your wards and offer me refreshment?”

“Ginger has _told_ you, Mr Voldymort!” Ginger spoke up. “You is not coming through the wards tonight!” Dazed, Harry turned to her and told her, quietly, to go back inside. It was too surreal to handle already, and he didn’t need a pregnant and most-likely insane house-elf screaming too.

Sirius finally found his voice, although it was a bit higher than usual—most likely from his state of panic. “You’re kidding, right? You expect us to lower the wards when they’re the only thing between us and certain death?” he said.

Voldemort, oddly enough, preened at the words. “I’m flattered, really, that you think so highly of my power, but I have no business with you tonight. I’m taking a well deserved holiday from the strains of death and destruction.”

Harry folded his arms across his chest and tried to look like he wasn’t even a little intimidated. What was he supposed to think with Voldemort showing up at his house? Yes, there were wards—very strong wards keyed to the very blood of the family—but wards could be broken, tricked, or manoeuvred. If Voldemort wanted in badly enough he would not be stopped. Harry suspected that his father had just realised that, as he stepped forward in attempt to block Voldemort from his son.

“Honestly,” Harry said, irritated, as he stepped around his father once more. He gave Sirius a withering look, and added, “Really, _Dad_ , if he wanted in, he would already be in. Don’t be such a Gryffindor right now.”

Voldemort cackled with mirth. “Oh, very good, very good!” he crowed and took measured step closer, bringing his hand up and running one finger against the nearly invisible wards. They rippled and shimmered under his touch, and Sirius shuddered at the intrusion. From his own reading when he’d been studying the wards on Privet Drive, Harry knew that Sirius, as head of the household and linchpin to the wards, would be able to feel it in his head. Harry narrowed his eyes further.

“What do you want?” he asked. Voldemort cocked his head to the side, and Harry said, “You must want something or you would have waited for when I was sleeping.” He hesitated, and then added, “I’m not going down without a fight.”

Voldemort grinned, slightly pointed teeth glinting in the moonlight. He leaned forward, his hood falling even lower as he did, and whispered, “I have a mission for you,” in his hissing voice. Harry barely restrained a flinch.

“I am not your servant,” he said. His father had taken out his wand by now, but Harry had not. The wards were still between them, and he did not want to seem overly intimidated. He would not show his fear yet. Perhaps foolishly, he had some small bit of trust for Voldemort due to over a year of talking with him almost daily.

In that time Voldemort had not killed any muggles, and the raids and assaults on other wizards had decreased dramatically. Harry liked to believe it was due to his influencing, but suspected that might be optimistic to the point of idiocy. There would always be some who were past the point of redemption.

Voldemort did not react to the comment. Instead, he stood up fully, eyed Sirius with some distaste, and said, “No. You are not, but I will be yours tonight. I wish to exercise a theory.”

Sirius stepped forward again with his wand raised and pointed at Voldemort. “Not on _my_ son, you won’t,” he breathed in a deadly voice. The sincerity of it was so shocking that Harry jumped, startled. He had not realised that his father could sound so scary or intent, or that he would actually stand up to Voldemort for him. He shivered at the thought, and turned back to Voldemort, waiting to see how he would react. He was almost sure that the Dark Lord would be infuriated enough to come through the wards and kill his father for that statement. He pulled his own wand slowly; he would not allow that to happen.

Voldemort did not try it, but instead regarded Sirius with growing curiosity. “It has not taken you long to accept it, has it, Black? Perhaps you’ve always hated James Potter for the son that should have been yours? And now that he is, you can’t breathe for the sweetness of it?”

Sirius tensed and Voldemort laughed maliciously. “It is true, then,” he decided. “I do not blame you for it, Black,” he added thoughtfully. “Lily Evans was a beautiful woman, was she not?”

Sirius growled and hurled himself forward, trying to body slam Voldemort, and Harry scrambled to prevent it. His blood was pounding harshly in his veins from fear that he would not stop his father before he left the relevant safety of the wards. Voldemort cackled, held up a hand, and Sirius was slammed backwards, landing haphazardly in the grass.

“You know nothing of Lily!” Sirius screamed, though he was shaking and the possible repercussions of his actions seemed to have hit him full-force. He stood quickly, afraid now more than ever that he would not be able to protect the son he hadn’t realised was his until just the other day.

“Contrary to what you wish to believe, Black,” Voldemort hissed in a deadly furious voice as he stared down at Sirius, red eyes gleaming, “I know much about Lily Evans…much more than you will ever know.”

He turned his red eyes back to Harry then, and said, “Come with me. I will not harm you,” he said, reaching out and stroking the wards almost lovingly. Harry shook his head, backing up, as he was truly frightened now.

“You can avoid the _Imperius_ , but you cannot overcome the other two,” Voldemort tempted, stepping even closer to the wards until his flat nose was almost pressed against them. “I can teach you.”

“That’s impossible,” Harry said, shaking his head, panicked. “Resisting _Imperio_ is all in your head. Resisting _Crucio_ would be all in your body and resisting _Avada Kedavra_ all in your soul. You can’t resist those.”

“Can’t you?” Voldemort returned quietly, grinning at Harry’s insight. “You yourself have resisted the strongest of them all, and I assure you, if anyone were to cast _Avada Kedavra_ on me right now, it would not work. Not even Dumbledore could put enough power in it to take me down. _I can teach you_ ,” he reiterated.

“I don’t believe you,” Harry insisted.

“Try it then,” Voldemort hissed with a smile, opening his arms in invitation. “I will not retaliate. Cast it on me.”

“No,” Harry insisted. “It’s a trick.” Behind him, Sirius tugged on his arm, but his feet were planted where they were. He could not understand why he was reacting so strongly to this; it was as if his own magic were begging him to do it.

Voldemort gave a truly wicked smirk—slowly spreading his lips and displaying sharp, glittering teeth on one side of his mouth. “Are you certain? Surely, after all this time we have come to some sort of unspoken ceasefire? Come with me and I will teach you.”

“You’ll kill me,” Harry said. He was resigned to this even though he knew he had a way out—but he refused to take it. His pride wouldn’t let him. He knew he was right, even if he was wrong.

“I will not,” Voldemort promised. “You have my word as a wizard. I swear it on my magic.” Harry shivered as he felt the magic of that promise settling over him. Voldemort could not kill him under those circumstances, or it would destroy Voldemort’s magic. Still, he was wary.

“Then what is the point of this?” Harry asked in frustration.

Voldemort smiled. “You will test a theory of mine, and...” he paused and studied Harry almost lovingly. _“I will make you better.”_ He studied Harry, waiting for a response, and then seemed to decide that he hadn’t the patience to wait any longer. Voldemort apparated away with a _crack_. Harry stared at the spot where the Dark Lord had been, and behind him, his father exhaled slowly.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The journal entry was adapted from a love letter written to F. Scott Fitzgerald by his soon-to-be-wife, Zelda, just before their marriage in the spring of 1919.


	8. Black Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/24/11.

  


“What was that all about?” Sirius asked faintly, falling heavily onto the couch when they were again inside. He looked ragged, weary, and Harry could not blame him. He wasn’t feeling much better himself, but at least he had understood.

All around them, the candles lining the walls were flickering to life as they recognized the presence of wizards in the room. They cast grim, ghostly shadows along the walls that Harry had never taken notice of before. Was that what everything looked like when you were dead?

None of his thoughts were making sense at the moment, and he wondered if it was really because of Voldemort. It didn’t seem possible that it could be, given how many times he’d seen the wizard before…and in much more daunting circumstances. How do you answer a question like that when you’re the Boy-Who-Lived?

Sighing, he dropped onto the couch next to his father and closed his eyes, rubbing them with the pads of his fingers. Already he could tell that he would not get out of this conversation with half an explanation or any sort of redirection. His father was trying to make light of the fact that the Dark Lord had just shown up for no discernible reason on their front lawn, but the underlying fear and uncertainty was showing in his voice. Harry tried to ignore it, and found it to be harder than he would have expected it to be.

He massaged his temples. It did not make answering any easier. “I told you before,” he said; the words came out harsh and ragged. Harry turned to regard Sirius from the corner of his eye.

“Voldemort wants me to join him. He doesn’t think I pose much of a threat anymore and he’s decided—on a whim, I suspect—to change tactics.” The humour he’d tried to interweave into his voice sounded much more like defeat than he would’ve liked, but Sirius seemed inclined to ignore it.

Everything was quiet except for the sound of their breathing—trembling and harsh—and everything was dark except for the sharp cuts of light against their faces, making everything in the room seem more death-like than it really was.

Long minutes were spent during which Harry could feel each individual hair on his arm raise from a chill that wasn’t present—except in his mind. Finally, his father said, “You weren’t taking the mickey, then.”

It wasn’t a question, more a realization that wasn’t quite acceptance, but defeat. Harry shook his head anyway, even though he wasn’t sure if his father could see it in the dim light. “No,” he said, haltingly. “No—he’s serious. He’s been after me for months, even before I told him the prophecy.” Harry suddenly laughed—a choking sound. “In fact, I thought the prophecy might discourage him, but it’s only reinforced his efforts. He’s relentless.”

“Right,” Sirius nodded, and then snapped his fingers. When Ginger appeared and Sirius asked her for _something strong_ , she nodded without a word and disappeared. She’d certainly calmed down, but it caused shivers down Harry’s spine to see her so docile. He just wanted something familiar to cling to after all of these revelations rushing at him so fiercely in such a short span of time.

She returned with two glasses of something warm and amber coloured, and left again. Ginger, it seemed, would not be that something.

“Right,” Sirius said again, voice still faint, but with a bit more determination after his first sip. “And he’s finally reached the bargaining stage, I see. The life-debt obviously didn’t work, and I assume that prodding and persuasion haven’t worked.” It didn’t seem like Sirius was talking to anyone but himself, but Harry looked up sharply, anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” his father asked a little manically. Harry raised both his eyebrows in confusion and shrugged. He really didn’t see anything obvious about the situation except for the way his heart was beating decidedly slower than it should have been after any sort of confrontation with Voldemort.

At his son’s blank look, Sirius banged his glass down on the table, startling Harry, and leaned forward. “Pure-blood ceremonies,” Sirius whispered angrily. “He’s trying to strike a truce, and you’ve been unwittingly turning him down. I don’t think I have to tell you what happens if you continue to be so discourteous—especially now that he knows you’re aware of your heritage.”

Harry chewed on his lip, utterly confused. “I think you might. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sirius growled in frustration. If he’d only known—if he’d not been in Azkaban or had any idea _at all_ that he had more pressing obligations than vengeance on Pettigrew—he would have been there all along to raise Harry properly. There was _no excuse_ for his negligence. How was he going to make up for seventeen years of proper wizarding training now?

He didn’t know how, but he was determined to try; he _had_ been a Gryffindor for at least that reason: stubborn determination.

“Enemies,” Sirius finally said, focusing on that determination to calm him. “It’s what rival wizarding families use when they want to stop the fighting. Simplified, the first process is flattery, persuasion, prodding…things like that—just trying to talk a family or family member into an alliance. If that doesn’t work, and one is available, a life-debt is sometimes called in.”

“But I don’t owe Voldemort a life-debt,” Harry scoffed.

Sirius smiled grimly. “No, you don’t, but when Voldemort paid his life-debt to you by having _my_ charges dropped instead of saving _your_ life, he negated all feuds with you and your family. Essentially, you owe him an honour debt, though it’s not magically binding because it relies on, obviously, your honour.”

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly. He pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees, burying his face between them to think. It didn’t sound life-threatening, at least no more life-threatening than anything else was for him, but it was confusing, and it almost explained why Voldemort was so relentless with his pressuring. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he was embarrassed for not realizing he’d been so rude—even to a dark lord. “So that means I’m dishonourable? Just for not becoming a Death Eater and killing innocent people?” he asked incredulously.

“You didn’t know,” Sirius answered with a shrug, but Harry could see, from peeking out between his knees, that his father had winced a little bit at the words. “But it doesn’t matter now because he’s already moved on to the bargaining stage. You have a chance to redeem your honour here.” His father sounded significantly brighter at this, and Harry wondered if this kind of honour would be as important to a family like the Weasleys. He didn’t think it would be.

But he wasn’t a Weasley. And he had been a Black for so short a time, he couldn’t help but feel chagrined that he was already disgracing the family. And then he thought it was rather stupid to feel that way at all because this was _Voldemort_ that they were talking about. _Who had less honour than Voldemort?_ Well _him_ , technically, but it wasn’t going to mean that he was going to run off and be a Death Eater because of it. There were more important things than honour, weren’t there? The Gryffindor in him muttered rebelliously at that thought, but he did his best to ignore it. In the end, it won.

“How do I redeem my honour, then?” he asked. Why couldn’t anything in his life ever just be simple? “Or _the family_ honour,” he added with a sneer.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Family honour— _even a family like ours_ —is important. You’ll just have to negotiate with him,” he added with a shrug.

Harry scoffed and lifted his head. “Are you having me on?” he asked. “You want me to negotiate with _Voldemort_? What am I supposed to do? Tell him we can exchange cards on holidays if he stops killing people?” He shook his head wryly, “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

“I don’t either,” Sirius said, worrying his lip. “Of course it wouldn’t—he’s Voldemort; he’ll want something else…something that would help him,” he mused.

“I wasn’t serious,” Harry added. “I don’t think there’s anything that Voldemort wants that would make him stop killing people—permanently at least.”

“Maybe not,” Sirius answered, “but I bet there’s something that would convince him to stop killing needlessly…or at least stop torturing people before he killed them.” Harry looked at him questioningly. “You,” Sirius said worriedly.

“That doesn’t sound like a very good bargain.”

“It’s not,” Sirius said, “but it’s all you’ve got to work with right now. You’ve destroyed your honour by not following the ceremonies. You could have easily gotten him off your back if you’d only know what you were dealing with, but you didn’t—thanks to those damned muggles,” he added with a sneer, “so you’ll have to play the game now. If you don’t, you’ll have every dark pure-blooded family out for your blood for disgracing them. Even those that aren’t allied with Voldemort.”

Harry winced, thinking of how much more difficult his life would be if over half of the wizarding world wanted him dead instead of just part. “So what do I do?”

At this, his father gave him a truly wicked smiled. “I’ll teach you,” he said.

Harry nodded, resigned, but they would have to start in the morning. He was just too tired to do anything else but sleep.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 435th page.  


>   
>  _  
> 30 January, 849_
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _It is over._
> 
> _We have re-warded everything, and the muggles can no longer find us. There are a group of wizards from Norway who specialize in aura reading that will be coming to help us erase the memories of the muggles we can find. They call themselves Aurors and have developed a charm that reacts only to muggle auras which, when they perform a certain ritual, will confuse and confound their memories. It will make them think everything was a dream. The only problem is that they have to focus on each individual muggle that needs his memory erased. It will be a tedious affair, but we are excited nonetheless._
> 
> _I have also heard that there is a group of wizards from Iceland who devote their lives to necromancy. I’ve contacted them, asking to study their practices in exchange for a fair amount of galleons. One has agreed to come now that we are again safe from the muggles, and I will resume my work to bring you back._
> 
> _Are you excited?_
> 
> _The Aurors arrive on the first of spring, and will begin teaching the ritual to the wizards of the area. They will learn, and so will I. And once I’ve learned, I will have you back._
> 
> _Yours always,_
> 
> _R_

ɤɣɤ

Harry slept fretfully all night, and woke up the next morning feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all. He’d had strange dreams all night, and none of them had been meetings with or visions from Voldemort. They made him feel off-balanced anyway.

He had heard lullabies and a trilling voice in every one of them, even though each dream had been completely different. Once, he’d been in an open field at night, staring up at the stars when he heard a woman singing softly. He turned, trying to find the source, only for it to disappear as soon as he did. In another, someone was speaking to him, and though the words were in English, he couldn’t understand anything but his name repeated over and over. And a feeling of being loved had overwhelmed him. He tried to see who was speaking to him, and then the soft laughter started.

Above all of that, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these dreams were familiar, even if their settings weren’t. He felt like he’d had those dreams many times before, and when he thought hard about it, he remembered the terrifying feeling of sleeping in his cupboard at Privet Drive when he was old enough to be afraid, but young enough to be unable to do anything about it.

It reminded him of glow-in-the-dark crayons he’d taken from the rubbish bin after Dudley had broken them—and the tiny little stars he’d traced on the ceiling of his cupboard because he was scared and had no nightlight—and the dreams he always had after falling asleep staring at them—trilling laughter, lullabies, and the feeling that he’d always loved thunderstorms, though he didn’t know why—and his mother, whom he’d always known had been redheaded with green eyes even before he’d ever seen a picture of her.

Harry shivered, and tried to figure out why he was almost positive he knew what his mother’s voice sounded like. He needed to get dressed; he was expecting visitors today.

The three days that passed after Harry’s birthday had been spent quietly—every morning and afternoon, Harry would sit desolately in the drawing room and listen to his father tell him all about the things he should have learned when he was younger, all the while wishing he was outside. Sirius had configured the wards around River House to refuse all post and all visitors until he said otherwise, and Harry couldn’t think of a good reason to argue with him about it—except that he was bored stiff.

But now, Ron and Hermione were coming. They had written back the day before Sirius closed the wards to let him know they would be arriving today. Hermione, who had taken to writing him daily, would no doubt be worried, but they would be flooing through later that morning, so long as she hadn’t already contacted the Ministry. He could listen to a scolding when they got there, and not fret over it for one moment beforehand.

He had too much on his mind. Sometimes, he would look up at his father and want to scream at him for being a horrible friend to James, and Lily for being unfaithful. He wanted to scream at James Potter for being so foolish and trusting, but most of all he wanted to scream at himself for not _really_ caring that his mother had been unfaithful or that Sirius had been a bad friend because _at least he had family now._

By the time he made it down to the drawing room on the fourth of August, his father was already there waiting with tea and breakfast for their final lesson before he opened the wards for visitors again.

Harry slumped down on the Chesterfield couch across from Sirius and yawned loudly. “Morning,” he muttered.

Sirius raised a single eyebrow in an uncanny resemblance to Lucius Malfoy. During these lessons, his father seemed to be an almost completely different person, and the pure-blood dark wizard part of him showed so obviously that Harry sometimes forgot what Sirius had been like before. It was eerie how he was able to do it, but where Harry expected he once would have been offended by the superior expression on his father’s face, he was now more intrigued and curious—and sometimes he wished he could pull it off as easily as Sirius seemed to—wouldn’t that give Draco Malfoy a run for his galleons?

“Good morning,” Sirius replied, apparently practising his long-lost posh accent. “I trust you slept well?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Yes, he sometimes found it interesting, but at this time of morning, it was more infuriating.

ɤɣɤ

Sirius watched his son stumble sleepily into the drawing room looking as if he’d slept in his clothes. He had to restrain both a delighted grin at the thought of _having a son_ and an impatient huff because after three days, Harry still wasn’t catching on.

He cast a glance to the Evans’ portrait above the fireplace and sighed. Lately, Frank had taken to visiting some of the other portraits and Laurel always had to follow him to make sure he didn’t offend any of them with his over-exuberance. So far, the fact that he had once been Minister of Magic—even if it was only in New England America—had intrigued his ancestors enough to prevent a squall. The Blacks delighted in politics.

The night before, when Frank was having a cigar with Sirius’ grandfather, Arcturus, Laurel Evans had told Sirius that Lily had been adept in Cadence Magic when she was younger. It was something that ran in Laurel’s family. Laurel had not had the ability, but her mother, Leslie Dormant née Prow, had, and Laurel’s grandmother had as well.

Cadence Magic was something that only ran on the female side of the family, and that Sirius had once heard of in one of his history books, but had never seen in action—though there had been talk of the Prince family having the ability. It was similar to the kind of magic that sirens used to lure victims into the sea, but had a much wider range of usage. If trained correctly, a witch could compensate for decreased magical power with her voice.

The magic was all in the intonation of a spell, but could be used without a wand if the witch in question knew how to project her voice. She could lower or raise the strength of a spell by saying the incantation a certain way. If a witch used the magic enough, her normal voice would often take on a resonating quality that sounded lovely to the ears, but was usually not noticed as the result of Cadence Magic unless someone knew exactly what to look for. Sirius had smiled sadly at hearing everything Laurel said, and tried not to remember the way Lily spoke or cried or laughed. Now that he knew, it was obvious that she’d maintained her practise at Cadence Magic.

He considered telling Harry about it, but he wasn’t sure what it would accomplish. It was just a trivial little fact, and especially with recent events, there was no reason to dig up old graves. They had more important things to work on anyway, such as Harry’s blatant refusal to behave like a proper young wizard should. Sirius supposed he should be setting a good example for his son, but he really hated acting like such a haughty old lord.

“Morning,” his son grumbled.

He sighed. He would do it anyway. Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived and was being actively pursued by Voldemort. He needed to learn these things.

“Good morning,” he replied, making sure his voice carried the strength his son would need train into his own voice. “I trust you slept well?”

To his dismay, Harry rolled his eyes. This was going to be so much harder than he’d expected. Why was he doing this, anyway? Was it really all that important? Across from the fireplace, the elder Orion Black—who never spoke—coughed pointedly. Yes, it was important; if Harry didn’t learn these things, then Sirius wouldn’t be the only one to disgrace the family. He owed it to Regulus, at least, to bring their name back to its proper standing. Regulus would have been a good heir. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Regulus could have done great things.

Sirius sighed again. Now was not the time for that.

“We have discussed everything you need to know to maintain your stance in the ceremonies, and I’m fairly certain that you’ve retained the knowledge.” He paused and waited for an affirmation, smiling slightly when Harry nodded. “Good. There is something else we need to discuss.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, swallowing a scone whole. Sirius could only be thankful that he did indeed swallow before he spoke. At least something was getting through that thick head of his. “What?”

In response, Sirius picked up a letter that had been sitting in his pocket since the thirty-first of July. He tossed it to Harry and sat back, massaging his temples.

“I need to go to the Ministry to clear up my accounts and properties now that I’m free. The Goblins have always liked me, so I didn’t have too much trouble whenever I wanted to withdraw money, but technically, the account is frozen and that needs to be fixed in addition to all land-holdings and other property deeds. Some are still in your name; apparently my will was executed two years ago,” he added wryly.

“Also,” he added, “we will need to bring in your birth-certificate and you’ll need to submit to a paternity test to prove to the Ministry that you’re really my son. The only problem with that is that it’ll be in the _Prophet_ before morning. Everyone in the wizarding world will know that you’re not a Potter.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Harry asked.

Sirius shrugged, a little too casually. “Nothing as far as I’m concerned—except that it’ll be a hell of a lot of publicity. I just wanted to warn you, and give you one last chance to back out.”

Harry winced. “Of course I don’t want to back out, but do we have to do it so publically?”

“Yeah, unless you want Bellatrix to get everything when I die. I’m sure that’s the only reason Dumbledore kept my alleged ‘death’ from the Ministry. Everything would have immediately reverted to her—Death Eater or not, since it’s magically binding.” He paused, and then added, “We don’t have to do that part now, you know, but I think that if we do, we can at least ride the publicity my imprisonment has caused.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah—let’s do it now. I want everyone to know,” he added with a smile. “I’m proud of you being my dad.”

Sirius struggled to push all the overwhelming feelings that admission brought forth away, and gave his son a grin. Maybe they would figure out this father-son thing after all.

ɤɣɤ

At fifteen minutes to four that afternoon, Sirius warily opened the floo connection and lowered the wards to allow visitors in case Dumbledore decided to apparate in instead of floo—if he even came at all. Harry’s owl should have reached him the day before, but he knew that Dumbledore would be busy, and wouldn’t even think of coming until later in the weekend. It was a Saturday now, and his son’s friends were supposed to be arriving at four.

That was another thing he was going to have to teach his son, he realised with a groan. The wards were connected to him as well—which he should have realised sooner, but, in his own stupidity, didn’t—and Harry would need to know how to activate and deactivate them. Sirius had known how to do that by the time he was eleven. It seemed that parenting never ended.

Sirius stared at the fireplace, eyes unblinking and unseeing, though his mind was whirling rapidly. He had so many conflicting emotions that he didn’t know what to do with. Would James or Lily have resorted to training Harry the way he had in order to outsmart the Dark Lord? Would they have rather he fight him like a Gryffindor—even if the likelihood of Harry dying from the ordeal would have been greater? Would they be disappointed in him for not putting his foot down? For allowing Harry to negotiate with a murderer?

“Is it ready?” Harry came in, smoothing down his hair self-consciously and adjusting his robes. Sirius smiled; Harry was almost as tall as he was, and he still looked so small and unassuming sometimes.

“Yes,” Sirius answered, nodding to the flames. He checked his watch and nodded again. “They should be here any minute now.”

Harry nodded and worried his lip as he slouched down into a chair to wait. He was nervous, Sirius could tell, even though he was trying hard not to let it show. Sirius felt a momentary pang of discomfort—that was _his_ doing. It was his fault that Harry’s nervousness only made him more nervous. He’d been training him not to let it show, and when Harry was unable to mask it, he was uncomfortable.

But he was getting better. Harry was improving quickly, despite Sirius’ worries that his attempts would be in vain.

The fire flared, and Harry jumped up in time to catch a head of bushy hair just before it hit the ground.

“Harry!” Hermione beamed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. Harry gagged, unable to breathe, and tried to smile at her. “Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I usually floo so well, but I tripped on a grate several fireplaces back and never caught my footing. Here’s my trunk, and Ron should be coming—here he is!”

The fire flared again and the Weasley boy tumbled out, landing on top of a trunk that had come through right before. “Harry!”

“Hi,” Harry said. He was buried under the two of them as they took turns hugging him and trying to talk over each other. Sirius smiled. He had a son, but he would never be as close to him as either of those two were. Quietly, he left the room—maybe he could help Fred with the gardening. The thought sent a delicious swirl of excitement through him. For some odd reason, they never could get rid of _all_ of the garden gnomes.

ɤɣɤ

Harry smiled underneath Hermione’s hair, and slung an arm around Ron’s shoulder when he came up. “Hi,” he said, genuinely pleased to see them. His nervousness and uncertainty over how they would react to everything he’d yet to tell them dwindled for a moment. It had been a great summer with Sirius—with his father—so far, but he couldn’t deny that he was exceptionally pleased to see his two best friends.

“Do you want tea?” Harry asked, breaking apart from them and grinning. “I think it’s already set up in the drawing room.”

Hermione beamed at him before Ron could get a word in. “Yes, let’s,” she said, nodding. “Which way?”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks. Hermione was already wandering out of the antechamber and craning her neck down the hall. She obviously remembered his footnote about a huge library and was trying to subtly scout it out. “Good to see you again, mate,” Ron said. “We better catch her before she finds the library.”

Harry laughed and led them out of the room. The drawing room was several doors down, and Ginger had already laid tea and biscuits out for them. Harry sat on the couch facing the fireplace and offered seats to his friends.

“Who are they?” Ron asked, nodding to the Evans’ portrait after he’d grabbed a handful of biscuits and taken a seat next to Harry. Hermione was serving up the tea—even though Harry offered to do it for her—and chattering so fast that neither of them could understand a word she was saying, but she stopped and looked up when Ron spoke.

Harry barely refrained from flinching. He knew he was going to have to tell them eventually, but he didn’t want to yet. He just wanted to catch up with his friends. Harry looked over at Hermione’s curious face and knew she would have hundreds of questions.

Harry sighed; he should probably just get it over with.

“My mum’s parents,” he said, giving the Evans’ a smile. Frank beamed back at him and Laurel nodded courteously to Hermione and Ron. “Frank and Laurel Evans,” he added. “We found their portrait in my mum’s Gringotts vault.”

Ron and Hermione gave him curious looks. “I thought your mum was muggle-born,” Hermione said. Ron nodded.

“I thought she was, too,” Harry said, giving the Evans’—who had frowned curiously—an apologetic look. “Apparently, just about everyone did.” He shrugged, and then added, “It doesn’t make much of a difference to me, but it _is_ nice to have met my grandparents.”

Ron scrunched his eyebrows, thinking, and then said, “But I’ve never heard of the Evans family.”

“Of course you haven’t, boy,” Frank said. “We’re from New York. The missus dragged me and the girls over after I retired—said she wanted a change of scenery.” Laurel narrowed her eyes at Frank, and he grinned at her. “My beloved wife, I mean.”

“But what about your muggle aunt?” Hermione insisted, staring intently at Harry. Harry, honestly, had no idea. He’d not thought anything of his Aunt Petunia since the day after he left Privet Drive. Instead of answering, he looked to his grandparents for an answer. Hermione and Ron followed his gaze.

Frank had a slightly angry expression on his face at the mention of Harry’s aunt, and opened his mouth to respond, but Laurel none-too-gently elbowed him in the ribs, and he closed his mouth. “We don’t speak of that,” Laurel answered for him, giving Harry a pointed look and then flicking her eyes to his two friends to say that it was none of their business. Harry smiled apologetically and shrugged at Hermione.

“Who knows,” he said. She, unsurprisingly, did not look very satisfied with that answer. She had a look on her face that clearly said, none of her business or not, she would be searching every library she could find until she found what she wanted to know.

However, she changed the subject; unfortunately, it was to a subject that wasn’t much better than the first one. “So how was your birthday? How did you like your presents?”

Harry thought back to the book she’d given him on French Ritual Magic and wished that he’d been able to read French. It had actually looked rather interesting, but interesting or not, it did him no good if he couldn’t read French. The Chocolate Frogs from Ron and Ginny were good, though, even if he hadn’t got any new cards from them. He told Ron so, and then turned back to Hermione. “I don’t understand French,” he said apologetically, “but if I ever learn, it’ll be the first thing I read.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, don’t you know any translation charms?” Harry shook his head, so she promised to teach him one before she left. He smiled gratefully at her, and decided to go ahead and get to the part he was dreading most.

“There’s something else I need to tell you two,” he said, looking at his friends. “You both saw the paper from my birthday, right? The article about Peter Pettigrew turning himself in and confessing to everything?” Hermione and Ron nodded. “Well,” he said, “Sirius’s going to have to go to the Ministry soon to straighten up all the paperwork…”

“Oh, good,” Hermione said. “You and Ron can go try for your apparating licenses then.” Ron nodded excitedly.

Harry had not thought of that. He’d honestly forgotten to get his license, and with everything that had happened on his birthday, Sirius obviously had as well. “Yes, I suppose I can talk him into that,” he said, “but that’s not all.”

He paused, trying to figure out how best to word it all. He came up with nothing. Hermione was on the edge of her seat in anticipation, and Ron was looking worried.

“It’s not your…scar…is it?” Ron asked.

Harry actually laughed. No, it wasn’t his scar, though if he’d felt comfortable enough to tell them, he would have had a few good stories about that, too. “No,” he answered. “It’s something else.”

“Then what?” Hermione asked, getting impatient. Harry shot her a glare for rushing him. Didn’t she understand it was hard for him to explain this? No, he supposed she didn’t understand. She didn’t know, after all.

“Well, see, I found this tapestry,” Harry finally said. “Like the one in Grimmauld Place,” he added for Hermione’s benefit. She scowled and Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry continued before they could start talking about the Grimmauld Place tapestry. “Only, this one’s different. It goes back a lot further and no one’s burned off of it.”

Hermione visibly brightened. “Oh, really? That’s really exciting. Think of all the history we could learn from it.”

Harry smiled grimly, and decided to change tactics. “Would you like to see it?” he asked. She was up and out of her seat, heading for the door before he could finish the sentence. Harry and Ron exchanged looks again and followed her out. “It’s in the library,” he added, making Ron groan and Hermione nearly bounce in excitement.

Hermione was like a homing device for libraries, and she was able to find the first floor entrance before Harry even shut the drawing room door behind Ron. Even though he wasn’t looking, he could tell that she’d found it by the startled gasp and the following reverent breathing. He and Ron snickered at her upturned face and Harry pushed her along into the room and up the stairs, then the ladder, to the third floor.

“This level is Black history and Dark Arts,” Harry explained to Hermione who was already thumbing through a rather nasty looking book. Harry gave her a pointed look. “Some are cursed,” he added when she still didn’t put the book down.

Hermione frowned at him. “This one isn’t, obviously, is it? Unless it’s time-delayed, which is possible because it’s a potions book—horrible poisons and their antidotes, it looks like—there could be a poison on the pages, but then, I’m sure the antidote is in the book.” She held the book up for Harry to look at and shrugged her shoulders.

Harry swore when he saw the cover. “I saw that book before; it was hiding another book that I took out,” he said, patting his robe pockets for the journal. “It’s really kind of nasty, I should probably return it,” he said, finding the bronzed journal and pulling it out from his pocket to show Hermione and Ron.

“It’s nothing but love letters written to a dead guy,” Harry explained to their disgusted faces. He supposed they had just noticed what the cover was made out of. “This woman who wrote them was trying to bring him back to life. Apparently, he was killed by muggles about eleven-hundred years ago, and she was pregnant with his son at the time. It’s kind of like a real-life tragic romance.”

Hermione gave Harry a funny look. “You read it?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s kind of interesting; I’ve not finished it yet, but sometimes she makes notes in the margins about techniques to bring him back to life—not in inferi or zombie form or anything, but as a real live person exactly the same as he was before. She’s tested it on cats and stuff. I bet she was able to do it,” he added. “She seems really smart, if a bit crazy.”

“I actually want to read that,” Ron spoke up, sounding confused at his own words. Hermione looked at him, opened her mouth and then turned back to Harry.

“Me too.”

Harry shrugged and put it back in his pocket. “I’m not done with it, yet.” He turned to the shelf that hid the door behind it and pressed his fingertip to a book called _The Lineage_ which pricked him. Harry winced and stepped back as the book made sure he was of Black blood.

“Harry!” Hermione yelled, rushing over and grabbing his hand. She lifted her wand to cast a healing charm, and Harry let her, before nodding at the doorway that stood where the bookshelf. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”

“It was necessary,” Harry said, now tugging both her and Ron over to the shelf. He pushed it back further to reveal the other side of the wide door and the Black Family Tree that hung there. “Look,” he said, pointing to Sirius’ line. “This is what I wanted to tell you.”

“What?” Ron asked confusedly, looking up and down the tapestry. Harry bit his lip and refused to answer. He wanted his friends to find this for themselves. It didn’t take very long—Hermione was a speed-reader after all, and she found the extra name under Sirius’ within minute, inhaling quickly when she did.

“What?” Ron asked again. Hermione pointed to _Castor Black—1980-_ and waited for Ron to make the connection. Harry raised his eyebrows when Ron immediately said, “Sirius has got a kid?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered carefully. “He would be in our year.”

“So where is he?” Ron asked. “And why haven’t I ever heard of him?”

Hermione, Harry noticed, was already running her eyes over his features, which had slowly changed over the summer. He didn’t look that much different, and it wouldn’t even be anything to comment on unless someone knew what they were looking for, but Hermione did, and she noticed the shape of his nose and the refinement of his cheeks along with everything else. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Harry, who had come prepared for this, nodded at her and pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket.

Her eyes went wide and she whispered, “It can’t be,” but Harry shrugged and passed over the parchment.

“I don’t get it,” Ron muttered, trying to look over Hermione’s shoulder. “What’s the big…oh merciful Merlin. That’s your birthday, Harry.”

“Exactly,” Harry said.

“And Castor Black’s first name is ‘Harry’,” Hermione added uselessly. Harry nodded. Hermione looked down at the parchment one last time, and then flicked her eyes back up to him. “And he had the same mother as you.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, “but a different father, if you haven’t noticed, and woman don’t give birth to two babies on the same day by different fathers.”

“So what does this mean?” Ron asked, knowing exactly what it meant, but unable to bring himself to say it. Hermione, too, shut her mouth long enough for Harry to answer. Even she didn’t want to be the one to answer this question.

“It means,” Harry said with a great sigh, “that Harry Potter does not exist.”

“Does Sirius know?” Hermione asked, sitting down and leaning against the doorway. Ron and Harry followed her.

“Yeah,” Harry said, propping his elbows on his knees. “We found out on my birthday.”

“I don’t get how it happened,” Ron spoke up, twisting his eyebrows in confusion. Hermione looked exasperated, but obviously wanted to hear the answer, too, because she didn’t say anything.

“Sirius was my mum’s first boyfriend,” Harry said. “The went out in secret from fifth year until a year after they left Hogwarts. Sirius was going to marry her, but they broke up for a bit. Anyway, Sirius was upset, so Dumbledore sent him on a mission that took him out of the country for eight months. When he came back, James Potter was engaged to my mum.”

“This is like a soap opera,” Hermione muttered. Harry grinned at her.

“Yeah, and then, obviously, they had an affair, and I was the result.”

“Wow,” Ron said. “I can see how you look like Sirius now, though,” he added. “I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking, but it’s definitely there.” Hermione nodded in agreement. “So how is he handling it?”

“How are _you_ handling it?” Hermione added.

Harry shrugged. “It was awkward for a bit, but then I was really happy. I’ve finally got family, you know. I feel kind of bad about James, but,” he shrugged again, “he’s dead, and I’m not. And neither is Si—my dad.”

Hermione smiled. “I bet Sirius is ecstatic.”

“I think so,” Harry answered. “He seems to be. He’s always been fatherly towards me, and now I kind of get the feeling that he thought of me as the son that should have been his, and now that I am, he’s feeling pretty good about it.”

Hermione frowned. “I feel kind of bad for James Potter, too,” she said, “but I’m glad you have family now.” She frowned further, and then added, “So do we have to call you Castor now? Because that’s a little weird.”

Harry shook his head. “My birth certificate says my first name is Harry, so I’m going to keep going by that, but I _am_ going to recognize my last name as Black,” he added. “That’s the other thing that my dad needed to do at the Ministry. We’ve got to have a blood test taken so that we have proof for the Ministry that I’m his heir, and then we’ve got to do all that paperwork.”

Ron shuddered. “The newspapers are going to be all over that.”

Harry nodded. “I know; that’s why we want to do it immediately because the _Prophet_ is already running those daily stories on how my dad was betrayed by his country and government and whatnot. He says it’ll ease the backlash a bit.”

“This is really weird,” Hermione said again. “But then, everything weird happens to you.”

Harry laughed. He had to agree.

ɤɣɤ


	9. Black, Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/26/11.

  


“Mum and Ginny are coming before dinner. Sirius wrote and invited us all over this morning—said that we might as well make a big thing of it since Hermione and I were coming. I think they’re going to stay for a few days,” Ron said.

Harry said, “Brilliant!”

After Harry’s revelation, Hermione had finally taken notice of the library at large, and made a noise remarkably like a muted squeal. Harry and Ron had then decided to retreat to Harry’s bedroom to play Exploding Snap, which was what they had been doing until Ron began acting shifty. “Is there any reason you seem upset about this? I don’t care who comes.”

Ron cut his eyes to the side and mumbled something. He blindly threw down a card and jumped when it exploded. “What was that?” Harry asked, ignoring for the moment that he’d just won the game.

Ron sighed and looked back. “Well, see, it’s like this, mate,” Ron said. “Ginny’s been acting strange lately, and as soon as we got that letter from Sirius inviting the rest of the family over, she pulled me aside and told me, in no uncertain words, mind you, that she needs to talk to you and I’m to arrange it.” He paused and then added carefully, “I think she’s in love with you again.”

Harry laughed, because it was simply absurd. “Rubbish,” he said. “Isn’t she dating Dean?” The idea of Ginny liking him again was ridiculous. Once she’d starting dating Dean in Harry’s sixth year, they’d become a lot closer—especially with Ron and Hermione dancing around each other constantly. It was very plain to him that she didn’t like him anymore and most likely never would.

“Well, yeah,” Ron said hesitantly. “But you know how she goes through boyfriends.” He punctuated this with a series of snaps of his fingers, and Harry grinned. “I’m just letting you know, mate,” Ron continued, shrugging. “I don’t care if you date her or not, and I’ll keep Hermione out of the way if you want me to, but I’m just warning you…And if she _does_ confess her undying love for you,” he added fiercely, “you’d better be nice about it.”

“Of course,” Harry said. He picked up the cards and shuffled them before dealing them out again. “And while we’re on the subject of undying love,” he said mischievously, “what did you and Hermione get up to at the Burrow?”

Ron flushed, and hid his face behind his spread of cards. “Nothing,” he said, and sounded sincere enough about it. Or rather, bitter enough about it. Harry chose not to say anything. “She was only there a couple of days—came over after she got back from France or Finland or wherever she went because her parents were leaving for a conference in America and they wouldn’t be back until school had started again.”

“She didn’t make you revise for your NEWTs?” Harry asked, laughing.

Ron growled. “That’s about all she did—well she hung around Ginny and they giggled together a fair bit. I tried to keep my distance when they were doing that.”

Harry laughed and slapped a card down. No snap—he grinned. It was quickly turning out to be the best summer he’d ever had. He couldn’t imagine anything better, actually. It was great having Ron and Hermione with him for the rest of the summer, add having a father to that—he couldn’t ask for more.

After he and Ron got their apparating licenses, he could take them to Eweforic Alley—well, he supposed they could walk, but he still wanted to get his license. Hermione would definitely say something about the bar they would have to go through to get there, and he found that he was almost looking forward to her indignant exclamations; yes, it was going to be a great summer.

“Snap!” Ron said. Harry broke out of his thoughts and looked down with a groan. “Finally—I was having a bad streak there,” he said. “Another game?”

Harry looked at his watch and shook his head. “It’s almost seven, and that’s when Ginger serves dinner. She’ll be furious if we’re late—and she’s pregnant,” Harry added with a shudder. “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

Ron frowned. “Who’s Ginger?”

“One of our house-elves,” Harry said, rolling off the bed. “She and her mate, Fred, work for us.” He gave another shudder, and added, “She’s very feisty.”

“Odd name for a house-elf,” Ron noted, following Harry to the door. Harry nodded ruefully. “You should have her name the baby George—that’ll piss the twins off…or give them a good laugh. You can never tell with them,” he added thoughtfully.

Harry laughed and hopped on the banister, sliding down to the second floor. When he got to the bottom, he looked up to find Ron still standing at the top. “I’d like to see you try that at Hogwarts,” Ron said flatly. “You’d fall seven stories.”

Harry shook his head. “Si-my dad enchanted these. You won’t fall. Try it. It’s almost as good as riding a broom.”

Ron gave him a doubtful look, but slid down it anyway. At the bottom, he was grinning, and they took the next banister down to the first floor—laughing loudly the entire way. Harry hit the bottom, dusted off his pants and looked up at Ron who was halfway down. Behind him, a door opened, and Hermione stepped out of the library, holding two books, just as Ron landed, with a thump, at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione said, carefully setting the books on the floor so that she had both hands free to put on her hips. Ron gave her a sheepish look from the floor. “What, in the name of Merlin, do you think you’re doing?”

“It was just a bit of fun,” he said, standing. Hermione narrowed her eyes, and Harry thought it would be chivalrous of him to step in at that point.

“We should see if your mum and Ginny are here yet; let’s go to the floo room, yeah?” he suggesting, offering Ron and Hermione a beatific smile.

“Brilliant idea!” Ron said, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulder, and leading him back towards the antechamber very, very quickly. Behind them, Hermione uttered a sigh, but followed anyway. “They said they’d get here a few minutes before seven. Maybe we can catch them.”

Sirius was already waiting in the antechamber, sitting in a chair and reading over a stack of papers. He looked up when they entered and gave them a smile. “Have fun, did you?” he asked. He checked his watch, and set the papers on a table next to the chair. “Ron, your mother and sister should be here soon. Care to wait with me? I’ve spoken to Fred and he said he’ll ask Ginger to serve dinner a bit late tonight—though he didn’t seem very enthusiastic about the request,” he added.

Harry grinned and sat down on the floor near his father, as there were no other chairs in the room. “I can’t imagine why,” he said.

“Who are Fred and Ginger?” Hermione asked.

“No one,” Harry, Ron and Sirius all said quickly. Hermione narrowed her eyes again, but did not respond. The men exchanged relieved glances, and Sirius struck up a conversation with Ron about the Chudley Cannons and their chances that season. Both agreed, although Ron agreed reluctantly, that they didn’t have a prayer.

A bit later, the fire flared green and Ginny stepped through, tugging free a yellow knapsack—which had tangled itself in the grate. She pushed her long hair behind her ear. “Hi,” she said, and hugged Harry and Hermione, though she’d seen Hermione only hours before. Sirius stood and gave her a half-hug, asking how her summer had been so far.

“Not bad,” she said. “I finished most of my homework early and spent the rest of it trouncing Ron in Quidditch.” Here, she gave Ron a triumphant smirk, to which he frowned. The fire flared again, and Mrs Weasley stepped out, beaming.

“Harry!” she said, crushing him in a hug. “So good to see you again, dear—you look…” she paused and studied him carefully. “Actually, you look fine, dear. I was certain that I would need to fatten you up a bit, but it seems…Sirius, how good to see you!” she redirected, also crushing Sirius with a hug. She seemed genuinely disappointed that Harry didn’t need to eat more.

Harry turned to Ginny and said, “Was she calling me fat?” He looked down at himself in feigned concern, pulling his shirt up and poking his stomach. “Do I look fat?”

Ginny laughed. “You look fine. She was probably referring to how well you’ve filled out,” she added, leering playfully at him. She poked his bicep. On his other side, Ron gave Harry an ‘I told you so’ look.

Harry laughed. “I like your hair,” Ginny added. “Very Hufflepuff.”

Hermione leaned around her and studied him. “Oh! I didn’t even notice your hair!” she said.

“I hope that washes out,” Ron said with raised eyebrows.

Hermione and Ginny laughed. “Yeah, can you imagine what Zacharias Smith would say?” Ginny said. “Are you trying to be rebellious?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning. “Sirius made me get a haircut, so I had them do this, too, to get back at him.”

“Where’s Arthur?” Sirius spoke up, having just removed himself from Mrs Weasley’s clutches. “Will he be coming later?”

“Oh no,” Mrs Weasley said. “He’s off investigating something or another for the Ministry. He’ll be there for another week at least.”

Sirius nodded, and led Mrs Weasley towards the door with a hand on her back. “Well, let’s have dinner then. We can catch up while we eat,” he added, giving Harry a look. Harry grinned at Ron and Hermione, to Ginny’s confusion, and ushered all three of them out of the room.

They were eating in the dining room again, since the kitchen table was much too small for six people. It was huge, though, so they all crowded around one end with Sirius at the head and Harry to his left. Hermione sat next to him and the rest sat across. Harry, Ron, and Sirius glanced warily at Hermione when Ginger popped in, carrying a tray.

“A house-elf?” Hermione said. Her voice was so quiet that all three men winced again. “You have a house-elf, Harry?” she repeated.

Harry opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Hermione repeated the question once more to Sirius, but he didn’t do any better. Ginger was calculatedly ignoring Hermione, until she came around to her plate and tried to serve her.

“No,” Hermione said, crossing her arms and glaring at Harry and Sirius. Ginger, taken aback, looked to her masters for an answer, but their heads were ducked over their plates and could not answer.

“No, what, Miss?” Ginger asked Hermione, when she realised she would get no help from either Harry or Sirius.

“No,” Hermione said. “I will not be served by a house-elf.”

Ginger immediately let go of the tray—which remained hovering in front of her—and put her hands on her hips. Harry and his father winced in sympathy for Hermione while Ron and Ginny looked on curiously. Mrs Weasley seemed to be doing her best to ignore the situation. “ _Excuse_ me?” Ginger squeaked, but it sounded almost like a growl. “Is Miss too good to be served by a filthy house-elf? Ginger washes her hands before preparing food for her Masters.”

Hermione, taken aback, looked at Ginger with wide eyes while Ron, Harry and Ginny all hid snickers behind their hands. Sirius was looking at the ceiling and pressing his lips very tightly together, as if trying not to smile.

“N-no,” Hermione said. “That’s not it at all.”

“Does Miss think that food served by house-elves is not fit to be eaten?” Ginger continued as if Hermione hadn’t spoken at all. Her huge eyes were narrowed almost to slits. She didn’t look very happy at all.

“No,” Hermione said. “I just don’t think it’s right to enslave your people!”

Ginger’s eyes narrowed further. “Miss is being very rude. If Miss had any decency at all, she would know that house-elves _like_ serving good masters—which Ginger’s masters _are_ —and that house-elves would not be able to survive very long without a master to serve. House-elves’ magic weakens when house-elves are not bound; the longer house-elves go without being bound, the more magic house-elves lose. House-elves _die_ without being bound, so if Miss does not want to _enslave our people_ , then she can make her own dinner.”

“It’s okay,” Sirius said. “She didn’t mean to offend you, Ginger.”

“I really didn’t,” Hermione said quickly.

Ginger continued to glare at Hermione, only stopping when Fred popped in very hesitantly and finished serving everyone before coaxing Ginger out. She disappeared reluctantly, and Fred looked at the people at the table with a morose demeanour.

“Ginger is having baby very soon,” he said. “Days, maybe. Ginger has short fuse. Fred knows very well,” he added, wincing. Then he, too, popped out and Hermione was left stunned, staring at nothing in particular.

“Is that true?” she asked the room in general. “Will they really die if they’re not bound?” Harry, Ron and Ginny shrugged. “Well, then what about Dobby? He hasn’t been bound for years.”

Everyone shrugged again, and it was Mrs Weasley who spoke up, finally. “He must have been born to parents that weren’t bound. If a house-elf isn’t bound when he’s born, then their magic doesn’t require binding. I imagine that his parents died very quickly and he looked for a family to take him in, not knowing how to survive otherwise.”

“So that’s why they get so upset when they’re freed,” Ron said to himself. He shrugged, and then dug into his dinner, assuming the conversation closed. Harry followed, and then everyone else did. Hermione was last and only began eating with an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

“So, Harry and I have news,” Sirius said several minutes later. Ginny and Mrs Weasley looked up and Harry fought a delighted grin. Excitedly, Sirius recounted the events of Harry’s birthday in excruciating detail. The stunned silence afterwards was finally broken by Ginny.

“I thought you looked different than before,” she said. “I suppose your mum put charms on you to make you look like a Potter, and now they’ve worn off...but really, it’s not that different. Maybe she didn’t, and we all just looked for what we expected to see.” She shrugged, and then went back to eating. Harry stared at her, incredulous.

“That’s it?” he asked. He looked to his father who seemed to be thinking the same thing, and frowned. “You’ve just found out I’m not really Harry Potter, and all you think is that I’m different-looking but not really different-looking now?” he asked.

Ginny shrugged. “Well, you are.”

Mrs Weasley found her voice after a few minutes of silence. “Harry, dear,” she said. “Will you be publicly acknowledging this development?”

Harry grinned. “Yes—we’re going to the Ministry…tomorrow?” he looked to his father for confirmation. Sirius nodded, so he turned back to Mrs Weasley. He looked back to Sirius once more and put on a pleading face. “And of course, Ron and I still need to get our apparating licenses.” His father rolled his eyes.

“The newspapers will love this,” Mrs Weasley said.

Harry winced. “Yeah—that’s what everyone else has said.”

After dinner, Sirius led Mrs Weasley to the drawing room to meet the Evanses and to have an after dinner drink. Harry tried not to pay attention when Ginny gave Ron a series of pointed looks and weird hand gestures. Obviously, he understood because with a great martyred groan, he asked Hermione if she’d like to join him in the library. She’d been silent ever since the debacle with Ginger, but brightened at his offer and happily led the way out. Harry was left in the dining room with Ginny, and she looked determined.

“I suppose you want to talk,” he said, a hint of question in the words. She nodded. “The garden’s nice—do you want to go out there?”

“That’s fine,” Ginny said, letting him lead the way. They walked in companionable silence until Harry reached the French doors leading from the living room to the back garden. It was dark by now and very quiet except for the crash of the waves against the cliffs that the manor sat on.

“It’s really nice out here,” Ginny said, looking out at the firth.

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets as they walked along the path. “So, what did you want to talk about?” he asked. Ginny didn’t respond, and when he looked over, she was biting her lip.

“I’ve been having these dreams,” she said.

Harry snorted. “Those are normal,” he said. “Be thankful that you don’t have to clean up afterwards.”

Ginny cuffed him. “That’s not what I meant!” she said but it was obvious she was trying not to laugh with him. “They aren’t _that_ kind of dream. But they’re really odd, and I knew I had to talk to you because no one else would understand them like you would.”

“I’m not Trelawney,” Harry said.

Ginny frowned. “This is serious.”

Harry held up his hands in surrender. With a sideways glance, Ginny said, “They’re always the same. I’m back in the Chamber of Secrets, but I’m not scared this time. I’m actually looking for… _him_.”

“Voldemort?” Harry asked incredulously.

Ginny nodded. “Yes. See—I used to have dreams about a dark-haired, pale boy before Hogwarts, and when I saw you at the train station the first time, I thought you were him…And in my dreams, it’s always been very important that I find him.”

Harry gave her an uncertain look. It was chilly out and he was beginning to shiver slightly, but he didn’t want to go in just yet. He knew Ginny was telling him something important, and he couldn’t bring himself to cut her off. “Do you?” he asked. “Find him, I mean.”

Ginny shook her head and wrapped her arms around her chest to fight off the chill. “No. I mean—I see him, and I’ll run towards him, and he runs towards me, but something always happens before we reach each other.” She paused before adding, “One of us always dies.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up to his hair. “So what do you think it means?”

Ginny looked at him, biting her lip. “I’ve done some reading,” she said carefully. “Hermione had a book on traditional wizarding marriages—I think she’s trying to give Ron hints,” she added. “Anyway, there’s one in there called the _Last Marriage_ which completely binds two people together—magic, mind, _soul_.” She stressed the last word. “It kind of makes them into soul-mates, which means that each time they’re reincarnated, they search the other one out relentlessly until they find them. It sounds just like what’s happening to me.”

Harry shuddered. “So does that mean that—assuming that’s what it is—that you’re Voldemort’s soul mate?” he asked. It was a disgusting thought.

Ginny shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Merlin,” Harry said. He shivered, and this time it wasn’t from the cold. “How would we know for sure?”

Ginny bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m hoping there’s another explanation. I’d rather be possessed, again, to tell the truth. It makes me sick to think about it.”

Harry could imagine. “Well, why didn’t anything happen before now? Why didn’t you get the dreams before?”

“I did,” Ginny said. “Well—I got them a bit. Once every six months or so, but since the summer after the Tri-Wizard Tournament they’ve been coming more frequently; sometimes three or four times a week now.”

“That’s when Voldemort got his body back,” Harry said, thinking. “If you’re really connected to him in some way, then maybe you’re just feeling it more because he’s corporeal now.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too,” said Ginny.

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s this Last Marriage thing,” Harry was quick to add. “Maybe it’s something leftover from being possessed your first year. Like with me—” He stopped very quickly, aware of what he’d nearly said.

“What do you mean, like with you?” Ginny asked. She had stopped walking and was staring at him very seriously. Harry stopped with her.

“It’s nothing, really,” said Harry.

“Harry...”

“Fine, it’s my scar, all right?” he said. “It connects us, too. I don’t have dreams about Voldemort, per se, but I can communicate to him _through them.”_

Ginny’s eyes went rather wide. “You never said anything like that! I just thought he hurt you through it—or that he could send you visions. Do Ron and Hermione know?”

“Er, not as such,” Harry said.

“What about Headmaster Dumbledore?”

“No,” said Harry. He pursed his lips. “I’ve got it under control, all right? We aren’t talking about me; we’re talking about you. I bet that he can communicate with his Death Eaters through their Dark Marks, too.”

“But you aren’t a Death Eater,” Ginny said.

Entirely the wrong thing to say, Harry realised. “I know,” he said. “And neither are you. There could be another explanation besides being bonded to the creep, is all I’m saying.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye as they continued walking. “Look, Gin...don’t say anything, all right? I can handle it.”

“Sure,” she said, but her voice was entirely too flat, and he knew she didn’t want to agree to it. She cleared her throat. “So what should I do?”

“No,” said Ginny. “Don’t involve Hermione. She’ll tell Ron.”

Harry sighed. “Then what’s your idea?” he asked.

She was silent for a long moment. Finally, “You could ask him.”

“Ask—?”

“You-Know-Who,” said Ginny. “Since you’re practically mates now—”

“That’s not how it is!” Harry said.

Ginny ignored him. “You could ask him if he was ever bonded to anyone like that. Maybe he would know how to break it.”

“Ginny,” said Harry. “I’m going to kill him, all right. You haven’t got anything to worry about. I’m sure this thing will break then anyway, if it is a bond.”

“No, it won’t,” she said. “If I’m right and we’re bonded that way, then when you kill him, I’ll feel it. The book says so anyway.”

That got Harry’s attention. “Feel it how?” he asked.

Ginny looked extremely vulnerable in that moment. She looked so much smaller than usual with her arms wrapped around herself and her shoulders hunched from the wind. She didn’t want to answer him, Harry could see, so he stopped again and put his arm around her shoulder, under the pretence of keeping her warm. “Feel it how?” he repeated.

“Well,” she said. “It’ll feel like my soul’s being ripped in half—because it _will_ be. And the book said that when things like that happen, it’ll probably be too much for me, and I’ll go insane, maybe even kill myself.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. “But, we said it’s probably not this bond thing anyway.”

Ginny pursed her lips. “I’ve got all the signs for it,” she said. “Dreaming of him, obsessed with knowing where he is, acquired magical masteries—”

“What kind of masteries?” Harry asked. He couldn’t remember Ginny ever having an affinity for the _Cruciatus_ curse, though she did have a wicked Bat Bogey. Surely that wasn’t a dark magic hex?

She didn’t speak for several minutes, but when she did, her voice was higher pitched and her words were sibilant. _“This kind,”_ she said, and it took Harry a second to realise she’d just spoken in Parseltongue. He jumped, startled, and stared at her with wide eyes.

“Merciful Merlin,” he said. Harry ran a hand through his hair roughly, and turned to look at the water. She was right, then; she was somehow bound to Voldemort, and if Harry killed him, then Ginny might go mad. Would the same thing happen to him, too? They were also bonded in some way, though through his scar and not through any past life.

“I dream about him, and I’m obsessed with finding him, too. You don’t think I married him once, also, do you?” he asked, but the joke was raw, and it fell flat.

Ginny shook her head. “No, I checked that, too. There are records of some curses backfiring and leaving the attacker and the attacked with a connection of some sort. Never as strong as yours, but it’s happened before.”

“Well—we’ll figure something out,” he promised her. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll find a way.” He couldn’t even begin to imagine how he would feel if that happened to Ginny. It would be devastating. She was one of his good friends.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “I want you to come to me any time something that has to do with this bond happens…and give me all the details so I know what I’m working with. It doesn’t matter what time. And I want you to stay until the end of the summer with Ron and Hermione; we’ll figure out something to tell your mum. Tell her we’re dating or something and we want to spend time together. I’ll want you around to give me updates.”

Ginny smiled. “She would be delighted if that were true.”

Harry gave her a wry grin and began leading her back to the house, but inside, his stomach was churning. “I’m sure,” he said. “Much more delighted than if she knew the truth, at least.”

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 492nd page.  


>   
>  __  
> 14 July, 849
> 
> _Beloved,_
> 
> _The Necromancers from the isles say it cannot be done, but I disagree. I have dedicated myself to the study for these last years and finally, with their help, I was given the last bit of information I need to begin work. It involves quite a bit of Arithmancy—which you know I was never good at—but I’m confident._
> 
> _I am certain that it will work._
> 
> _In the meantime, I have been dreaming of you. Every night, I see your face and smile because I know that I am one step closer to having you back with me. Your son is so big now; he will be delighted to finally meet you._
> 
> _Sometimes, he rummages through my things when I have not kept a sufficient eye on him, and makes a terrible mess. Recently, he has taken to running his tiny fingers over the cover of this journal and digging through the box of your bones. He knows that they are yours. I am sure of it._
> 
> _The ritual, I believe, will need to be performed on All Hallows’ Eve, and I hope to be ready by this one. If not, there is always next year._
> 
> _So, until I see you again, my beloved, I will be dreaming of you—warm and happy in the knowledge that I am sure you are doing the same, wherever you are._
> 
> _Yours always,  
>  R.  
>  _

  


ɤɣɤ

That night, after Harry and Sirius had shown Hermione, Ron, and Ginny to their rooms, and turned in for the night, Harry sat on his bed, thinking of his conversation with Ginny. It was troubling him greatly. So much so that he was half-considering Voldemort’s offers to stop the war—but he didn’t want to stop it that way. If Voldemort was allowed to continue on as he was, more people than Ginny would die, and he couldn’t have that either, dishonour or not.

He needed to think.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately depending on how he looked at it, someone appeared in his bedroom at that moment. He looked up, noticed gleaming red eyes, and jumped. “Bloody hell!” he said, scrambling back further on his bed. Where was his wand? Of all the times to not have it in his pocket, it had to be then. He thought it was on his night table—if he could only get to it…

“Good evening,” Voldemort said, looking around his room with mild distaste. Harry looked at him again, and finally saw that Voldemort was not fully solid. He could see the outline of the window behind him. He sighed in half-relief and stared warily at the Dark Lord. “Are you not going to offer me tea?”

In a daze, Harry snapped his fingers. When Fred appeared—looking almost grateful that he’d been taken away from his wife, even if it was for a strange request—Harry requested two cups of tea, not taking his eyes off Voldemort. Fred returned seconds later, and Harry wordlessly floated the tea cup to Voldemort’s translucent form after he’d gone.

“You’re right,” Voldemort said conversationally. “You can’t taste the tea at all in this form.”

Harry waited.

When Voldemort had finished his diatribe on the tea, and found a chair to sit in, he looked back up at Harry, blinking his red eyes. “You are awake at an appallingly late hour,” he said. “Should you not be asleep? It’s nearly two in the morning.”

Harry glanced at his watch and swore. His father had told him that he and Ron would need to be up and ready to leave by nine in the morning. He’d planned for everything at the Ministry to take most of the morning and afternoon. He was never going to wake up on time now. He’d spent entirely too long mulling over Ginny’s situation.

“Well?” Voldemort said.

Harry swore softly again. He needed to learn better; how in the world was he able to forget himself so quickly with Voldemort around? It couldn’t be safe. Harry looked up at him, inviting him to continue. “Have you given any thought to what I said the other day?”

Harry looked at him dubiously. “Exactly what is it that you want from me?”

Voldemort smiled—all sharp, white, glinting teeth—and leaned further back into his chair. He discarded his tea with a disgusted look, and folded his hands in his lap. “I want to test a theory, as I said.”

Harry scoffed. “I’m not going to be your puppet.”

Voldemort gave him a look that Harry was fairly certain said ‘Do you take me for an idiot?’—which Harry didn’t. Voldemort was many things, but an idiot was not one of them. He was obviously too smart for his own good.

“I’m getting old,” Voldemort said at last, looking as though he could not have cared less. “And I don’t have an heir.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, had one then? You were pretty attractive in your time, you know,” he added, trying to keep the mocking out of his voice. He apparently didn’t succeed because Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

“I would have, once,” he said. “My lover,” he said, ignoring Harry’s shudder, “was killed many years ago.”

Harry, feeling an uncharacteristic stab of pity, shrunk in on himself, wishing that he could take the words back. Of course, Voldemort was evil, but no one deserved to have their lover killed. He suspected it would probably be worse than dying—having to live without the one you loved.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

Voldemort waved him off. “It is no matter. That was many, many years ago. There’s no need to dredge up the past.” He seemed to be telling that to himself, so Harry did not respond. “Regardless, I am now without an heir.”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be immortal?” Harry said, trying to avoid what he suspected was coming next. “I kind of assumed, you know,” he continued. “It’s the impression I got from Dumbledore, anyway—that you were immortal unless killed in some special, heretofore unknown, way.”

“Oh, I am,” Voldemort said. “But there’s no reason to be incautious, and I find that I might enjoy the challenge of working with someone new.”

“Me, you mean,” Harry said carefully. Of course it was him, he knew. Voldemort had been hinting at it too long for it not to be. “We don’t have the same beliefs,” he said, just to make sure Voldemort hadn’t forgotten. “I don’t believe in what you do.”

Voldemort made the equivalent of a shrug. “So change my beliefs,” he said, unconcerned, though Harry didn’t think he was serious. “I am giving you the opportunity to convince me.”

Harry opened his mouth to say that he reckoned it would be a cold day in hell before that happened, but Voldemort, predictably, cut him off. “Humour me,” he said harshly and Harry recoiled. “I want you to lead a Death Eater meeting; I want to see if you have the ability to be a leader.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “I don’t think your Death Eaters would like that,” he said, trying to stall.

“They will not know,” Voldemort said. “You will take Polyjuice potion, and I will be there to guide you—in my animagus form,” he added when Harry opened his mouth. “It is a snake, obviously, so you will have no trouble conversing with me without anyone else understanding.”

Harry slumped; he thought of the dishonour on the name of Black, and the resulting family blood feuds with every other dark pure-blooded family that would surely follow if he refused another overture of peace. He thought of Ginny, and that getting closer to Voldemort might give him a chance to find out something that would save her.

And he thought of himself. He didn’t want to die at the hands of this madman. He didn’t want anyone else to die. “How will I get Polyjuice potion?” he asked, finally. “It takes a month to brew.”

Voldemort smiled. “I have some already. You will only need to add my DNA. If you don’t feel comfortable drinking a potion from me, then buy some. The Apothecary in Knockturn Alley sells it.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Harry asked.

“I give you my word,” Voldemort said. Harry looked at him dubiously, wary of how much Voldemort’s word actually meant. Voldemort recognised his hesitation. He said, “I swear it on my magic that I will not allow you to come to harm, through actions or inactions, while you are conducting this experiment for me at a meeting of my Death Eaters. I swear it on my magic that I will not allow my Death Eaters to harm you, should they realise that you are not me; I will kill them myself.”

Harry felt the tingling sensation of the magic settling into his skin.

“And if the results are not to my liking,” Voldemort said, “I will sever our connection and we will resume our war.”

 _Some choice that is,_ Harry thought. Voldemort smirked at him, as if he could read his mind. He didn’t want to do this; he didn’t want to consort with the enemy, and he didn’t want to compromise his morals for this, but what choice did he have? He would be stupid to ignore a chance to save Ginny—to save thousands of wizards and muggles alike. With a sigh, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Wonderful!” Voldemort said. “I shall send for you when it is time. Do not forget to have your Polyjuice potion ready—you are visiting the Ministry to get your apparating license tomorrow, are you not? Good, there will be no excuse for lateness then.”

Harry opened his mouth dumbly, but could not get words to form, and then Voldemort was gone. He shuddered. It would be a long time before he got to sleep.

ɤɣɤ

  


  


The next morning, Harry woke up to someone slobbering on his face. He opened his eyes, and found Padfoot staring at him. He groaned, rolled over, and tried to bury himself under his pillows, but Padfoot was insistent.

“G’way!” he said, batting the dog away with his hand. Padfoot yelped and jumped off the bed. A minute later, his father was standing over him, trying to look stern. Harry opened one eye slowly. “You got dog hair on my bed,” he said.

Sirius grinned. “Good. I’ve been trying to wake you up for ten minutes; you were sleeping like a log. Now, up you get. We have to be at the Ministry in thirty minutes and Ron’s already dressed and eating breakfast.”

“Ron got up before me?” Harry asked. That was new. Feeling a little flabbergasted at this turn of events, Harry slowly rolled off the bed and padded to the bathroom to have a shower. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” he called over his shoulder.

Indeed, he was showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and his black- and navy-striped frockcoat within fifteen minutes. Ginger had made rashers and eggs for breakfast and he started in on them as Ron helped himself to a second serving.

“Morning,” he said, absently tapping his head with his wand to dry his hair. He overdid it and it made a crispy, crinkly sound as all of the moisture was removed. From behind his paper, Sirius corrected the issue without a word.

Ron mumbled a reply around a bite of eggs and Sirius, sitting across from him at the kitchen table, turned a page in the paper, which he had recently decided to take after all. “They’re still going over what a tragedy it was that I was falsely imprisoned for twelve years,” he said. Harry looked up, trying to see his father’s face over the top of the newspaper.

“Are they?” he asked. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, sounding quite amused. Harry turned back to his breakfast, losing himself in his thoughts—he was still a bit reluctant to follow through with what Voldemort had asked of him, but knew there was no way he could back out now.

Suddenly, Ron cleared his throat. “How did it go with Ginny last night?” he asked.

Sirius, Harry noticed, looked up at that, seemingly very interested in what he had to say. He muttered something about ‘floo disks’ and Harry narrowed his eyes at him, though the effect was ruined by his flushed cheeks.

“She just wanted to talk,” Harry said.

Ron looked relieved. “And you’re not a bit disappointed, are you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Fortunately, his father saved him at that point. “Are you two about ready to go, then?” he asked. Harry swallowed a last bite of eggs, chugged his orange juice—made of carrots, unlike the muggle variety—and stood, very eager to end the conversation before Ron could get it started.

“Yeah,” he said, already striding towards the door. Ron and Sirius met him in the floo room seconds later.

“We’re flooing to the Leaky Cauldron and walking to the Ministry from there,” his father said. “We have to take the visitor’s entrance.”

Harry tossed the floo powder in the flames, calling out ‘The Leaky Cauldron’ when he stepped in. He was swirled through the fireplace, every now and then catching glimpses of unwarded floo rooms, before he was roughly tossed out. He stumbled, but managed to catch himself before he hit the floor, and that was surely an improvement from his usual style.  
Ron followed next, and then his father. They waved to Tom behind the bar, and then exited into London proper, walking the several blocks to the phone booth that would take them to the Ministry.

“Still got your emergency port-key?” Sirius asked. Harry nodded and pulled the little Zippo lighter with a white greyhound on it, which he now carried with him everywhere, out of his pocket to show his father.

“What’s Ginny and Hermione going to do today?” Harry asked Ron as they walked.

Ron shrugged and pulled a Chocolate Frog out of his pocket. He seemed to have a never-ending supply of them sometimes. “Hermione’s going to prowl your library,” he said. “No telling what Ginny’s up to. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to rummage through your stuff, trying to find something to amuse herself with.”

Harry suddenly remembered the floo disks his father had given him for his birthday. Clearing his throat, he said, “I doubt she’ll find anything interesting. I’m pretty boring.”

Sirius shot him a grin. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said airily. “She might find _something_ interesting.” Harry glared at him.

“What do you mean by that?” Ron asked.

“Nothing,” Harry and Sirius said together. Ron narrowed his eyes, but wasn’t given the chance to speak because Sirius continued with, “Oh look, we’re here.”

They were standing in front of the dingy red phone booth that led to the Ministry, and Sirius was ushering them inside. “Bit tight, isn’t it?” he said. Harry would have nodded in agreement if his head wasn’t stuck under Ron’s elbow. He wasn’t sure how that had happened.

Sirius fumbled with the telephone, spelling out M-A-G-I-C on the keypad, and then the dry, bored voice of the welcome witch came on. “Please state your name and business,” she said.

“Sirius Black with Ronald Weasley and Harry, er, Potter,” he said. “For paperwork and apparating exams.”

The change return spat out three nametags, and Harry was chagrined to note that his and Ron’s both read ‘Vainly Attempting to Pass Apparation Exam’ while his father’s read the much more dignified ‘Rectifying False Imprisonment Charges’.

The lift took them down and they stepped out, had their wands registered, and stared at the directory of the Ministry that explained what floor everything was on.

“You two head down to Magical Transportation. Apparating tests are in Suite 4A, and then when you’re done—hopefully both with licenses—you can meet me at Magical Law Enforcement.” Sirius said. “I’ve got to sign all the papers that will formally clear my name, and I imagine that will take a while,” he said.

“Do you think you’ll pass first go?” Ron asked, as they headed off for the Transportation Department. “I still can’t believe that they failed me for leaving _half an eyebrow_ ,” he muttered, remembering his tests from sixth year.

Harry laughed. “I hope so—and I bet you’ll do fine this time. You’ve had plenty of time to practice.” Ron looked sheepish. “You _have_ practiced, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, “but every time I do, the twins seem to _know_ about it, and they always pop into the Burrow and distract me.”

Harry laughed and opened the door to Suite 4A. There was a plump witch in tangerine-coloured robes sitting behind a desk, reading parchment. She looked up and smiled. “Apparition tests, dears?” she asked.

Ron and Harry nodded. The witch passed over two clipboards. “Fill these out, then, and turn them in when you’re finished. We’ll call you as soon as a tester is available.”

After filling in their names, ages, Hogwarts houses, favourite colours and shoe sizes, they passed the clipboards back, grinning excitedly to each other. A few minutes later, a door behind the witch’s desk opened and a tall, willowy woman stepped out. “Potter, Harry?” she called. Harry stood, accepted a pat on the back from Ron for luck and followed her into the hallway behind the door. She led him down and opened the last door on the right.

“First time testing?” the witch asked. “I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she said with a smile, and then became all business. The room was very large, and as he looked around, the witch pointed to an X spellotaped to the floor and to another, about fifty feet away.

“Step to the X,” she said, “and when you’re ready, I want you to apparate to the other X at the far end of the room. Remember your three D’s,” she added.

Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and turned, concentrating on the other X. When he opened them, he was standing on the other X. He grinned at the witch.

“Very good,” she said, nodding. “Now if you can just apparate back for me—we have to make sure it wasn’t just a fluke, you know.”

Harry concentrated again and apparated back to the first X. “Excellent,” the witch said. She motioned to a set of chairs against the wall and he followed her over to them. “Now, you’ve passed,” she explained, graciously allowing Harry a moment to control his grinning. “But we still need to go over the rules.

“Your license can and will be revoked if you violate any of the apparating regulations. These are very simple. First, it is illegal to teach, without having been properly certified, an unlicensed wizard how to apparate. Clear?” Harry nodded.

“Also, it is unlawful to apparate with an illegal substance on your person, and lastly it is unlawful to apparate another wizard, other than underaged wizards for which you are their legal guardian, without having explicit consent first. Do you think you will have any problems following these regulations?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“Very good,” the witch said. She swished her wand and the piece of parchment from her clipboard sparkled and appeared floating in the air.

“You need not carry this with you,” she said, passing the parchment over to him. “But it is your license nonetheless. You’ll be entered into the Ministry database, but should something unfortunate happen—our files spontaneously disintegrating, say—you’ll have this as proof. I suggest you keep it in your vault, if you have one.”

Harry nodded, and the witch moved to the door. “You’re free to go,” she said.

Back in the waiting room, Ron had already left to take his test, so Harry sat and waited. He struck up a conversation with the witch behind the desk—who seemed so delighted to have conversation at all that she didn’t mind talking about Harry’s school subjects which were, admittedly, rather boring. Ron came out about fifteen minutes later, fighting back a grin.

“Pass, did you?” Harry asked, standing up.

Ron grinned and held up a sheet of parchment. “Yeah— _finally_! Mum’ll be so pleased, and I can finally rub it in to the twins.”

They walked back to the lifts, exchanging ideas of where they could apparate first, and rode to the floor where Magical Law Enforcement was. Harry’s father was just exiting one of the rooms as they left the lift. He saw them and walked over.

“Finished,” he said. “Did you both pass?” They nodded. “Excellent! That calls for a celebration, I think, but first we have one more thing to do here.”

“What?” Ron asked.

“Harry’s got to get his business in order,” Sirius said. “We need to go to Magical Inheritances.” He stopped to check the directory and then ushered them back into the lift.

Magical Inheritances was on the fifth floor and in a room that was decorated in silver and gold. It was rather gaudy, Harry thought. Judging from Ron’s snicker, he agreed. Sirius went up to the desk and spoke with the young brunet wizard sitting there. There was a series of gaping and raised eyebrows from the wizard, and then Sirius ushered them over.

“We’ve got the certificate of live magical birth,” Sirius was saying. The wizard looked dubious.

“We’ll need to do the paternity test, of course,” he said. Sirius nodded, unconcerned.

“I expected as much,” Sirius said, smiling in his strange posh way. “Harry, take the coat off so he can get to your arm.” When Harry did, the dubious little wizard walked around the desk and tapped his wand to Harry’s forearm, muttering a charm that Harry couldn’t quite hear. He conjured a vial and held it to the tip of his wand, which was still pressed into Harry’s skin. Blood flowed, from no discernable puncture, into the vial and the wizard capped it with a practised ease.

“And yours as well, Mr Black,” the wizard said. Sirius rolled up the sleeve of his robe and held out his arm. When he was finished, the wizard capped the vial, muttered something unintelligible and disappeared through a door.

“Doesn’t sound like he’s too happy about his job, does it?” Sirius asked as they sat down in the waiting area. Harry shrugged and Ron pulled out another Chocolate Frog.

“Finally!” Ron said, jumping up and tossing the Chocolate Frog in Harry’s lap. Unconcerned, Harry ate it. “I’ve got Ptolemy! I’ve got a full set, now!”

“What are you going to do with them?” Sirius asked, amused.

Ron was stumped. “I don’t know.”

Just then, the wizard who’d taken Harry and Sirius’ blood, returned, looking quite disgruntled. “Everything seems to be in order, Mr Black,” he told Sirius. Sirius smiled smugly and Harry tried to console Ron, who still didn’t know what one did with a full set of Chocolate Frog cards. “Will Harry be legally changing his name?”

“It’s already legal, isn’t it?” Harry asked, looking up. “It’s on my birth certificate that way.”

The wizard frowned. “That birth certificate never made it to Ministry offices. You have a different one in our files, which proclaims you ‘Harry James Potter’. If you wish to legally change it, we’ll need to fill out a bit of paperwork. In triplicate,” he added.

“Sure,” Harry said. He turned back to Ron and said, “Do you know if they’re worth anything? Maybe you can sell them.”

“Very good, Mr Potter…Black,” the wizard said in a tight voice. He pulled open a desk drawer and extracted a stack of papers, sliding them across to Harry and Sirius. “Please complete these. Ministry records will be changed immediately.”

Harry picked up a quill and set to work. The first time he wrote the words ‘Harry Castor Black’ he felt a strange emptiness flow through him. He wanted to accept Sirius as his father, but he’d known James Potter to be his father for so long. He couldn’t just throw that away. He pulled out his wand and erased it, Sirius watching the move with a nervous stillness.

Deliberately, Harry rewrote the name: ‘Harry James Potter Black’.

“I can’t completely erase James Potter,” he said by way of explanation. Sirius had yet to say anything. “You’re my father, and I love you, but he protected me like I was his own, and I don’t want to forget about him like he was nothing.”

Sirius smiled and him. His eyes looked a little shiny. “That’s okay with me, Harry,” he said. “If I’d had a chance to name you, I might’ve named you after my best mate anyway. I miss him all the time.”

Harry smiled. “And now you can name the next one Castor, if you decide to get married.”

Sirius barked out a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be a laugh!” he said.

ɤɣɤ


	10. Black Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/27/11.

  


By the time they were leaving the Ministry, Ron still didn’t know what to do with his Chocolate Frog cards, which, Harry suspected, wasn’t really that big of a problem in the grand scheme of things, but he wasn’t about to say it.

“So,” Sirius said when they were back in London and heading for the Leaky Cauldron. “Celebrating—where to?”

Ron and Harry exchanged glances, and Harry knew exactly what Ron was going to suggest before his redheaded friend even opened his mouth. “I’ve never had a beer,” Ron hinted. “Mum won’t allow it, even though I’m old enough now.”

Sirius gave him a dubious look. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” Harry had been, up until then, unaware that Ron was able to look quite so innocent, but indeed he did. He’d widened his eyes and put on a pleading pout. “Bollocks,” Sirius muttered, seeing the look. “Don’t ever make that face again and you can have one.” Ron continued with the look. “Fine, two, but _that’s it_.”

Harry snorted. “And I don’t want to hear a word out of you,” Sirius continued, trying to look stern. “If Molly finds out that I let you do this, she’ll have my bollocks for breakfast.”

Harry and Ron gave him similar disgusted looks and followed him into the Leaky Cauldron. “Since I don’t want to be seen—and possibly reported—giving alcohol to the two of you, we’ll go to Eweforic Alley,” Sirius said, pulling out a pouch of floo powder from his pocket. They waved to Tom behind the bar again and headed over to the floo.

Sirius turned to Ron and gave him a hard look. “I mean it, no telling your mother,” he said. “You’ll be flooing to ‘The Burning Man’.” He held out the pouch for Harry and Ron.

Harry followed Ron through, stepping out just in time to catch Ron’s incredulously raised eyebrow. He’d, obviously, noticed the décor. “Bad form, isn’t it?” Harry said. Ron nodded wordlessly, flinching as a table candle was lit—complete with low-volume wails of despair from the wicker man on top as it began to burn. Sirius came through right after and ushered them quickly to the men’s rooMs

“Where to?” he asked when all three were on the other side. It was just after noon by then and all three were hungry.

“I want that mushroom place,” Harry said, and his father grinned in response.

“That’s my boy,” he said, pointing Ron towards Merlin’s Magical Mushroom on Myrrdin Street. Ron did not care what he ate, and so had no objections—at least until they stepped inside.

“What is it with Scottish people and exaggerated themes?” Ron asked, upon seeing the tables painted to look like fairy rings. Harry and Sirius sent him glowering looks until he backed up with his hands extended in surrender. “Fine—I don’t _mind_ , of course. I was just wondering. Mushrooms are great,” he added.

Once at the table, Harry ordered the Curry and Mushrooms, with extra mushrooMs Sirius smiled proudly at him, ordered the Mushroom Chowder since it was a Thursday, and frowned when Ron ordered a pizza with everything.

“The other toppings overpower the taste of the mushrooms,” Sirius pointed out.

Ron shrugged. “I like mushrooms, but usually just with a full breakfast,” he said, unconcerned. “So, how long has this place been around?”

“I’m not certain,” Sirius said. “I know it was around before I was born. My father took my mother here when she was pregnant with me. It was the only time he was ever able to get her to come, and that was only because she had a craving for shiitake ice-cream,” he said.

Ron grimaced, and changed the subject again—this time to Quidditch because that was usually safe. They got into a wild, Gryffindor-style debate about why the Falmouth Falcons could never best the Montrose Magpies, which probably wasn’t a good idea. “I’m telling you,” Ron exclaimed, standing up and positioning salt-shakers and cutlery as Quidditch players on the table, “that if the Falcons would just position their Chasers wider, they’d have a chance.”

He spread out three forks to demonstrate this and smiled smugly. Harry looked at him dubiously and was about to tell him that the Chasers didn’t need to go _wider_ ; they needed to alter their flying height, when they were interrupted by the clearing of a throat. All three looked up.

“Smith,” Harry said, first to recover from the dispute. “What are you doing here?”

Zacharias Smith rolled his eyes. “It’s my aunt’s birthday—married _in_ ,” he added, as if any of them actually cared. “She’s fond of the mushroom cheese-sticks here, so my parents are taking her to lunch.”

Ron blinked. “Okay,” he said.

Zacharias looked startled. “Oh—Weasley, good to see you,” he said. “And you, too, Mr Black,” he said. Sirius smiled at him and asked him how his parents were doing, obviously having forgotten that Harry had suggested the Smiths might have been the ones to tell Voldemort they were living at River House.

“Not bad,” Smith said. “We all had a wonderful time at dinner the other week. Mother tried to send you a thank-you note, but the owl was returned.”

Sirius smiled. “Something came up and we had to close the wards for a few days. Is your mother here now?” Zacharias nodded, pointing over his shoulder. Sirius smiled. “I think I’ll go speak to her, then,” he said, scooting out of the booth. Harry frowned.

“So why aren’t you with your family, then?” he asked.

Zacharias groaned. “I really hate my aunt.”

Harry stared. Ron blinked again, and said, “So?” Then he looked back at Harry and mouthed, ‘You had dinner with _him_?’ Harry shrugged.

“ _So_ ,” Smith drawled, “I hate to do this, but may I impose myself on you for a bit?” He shuddered dramatically, and added, “I don’t think I can handle a full hour of her. Just pretend we’re great friends.”

Harry exchanged a dubious glance with Ron. “I suppose.” The words weren’t even out of his mouth before Smith was sighing in relief and squeezing in next to Ron.

“Thank you,” he said, and snapped his fingers, calling a waitress over. He politely held his tongue when she gave the customary ‘Merry meet, what’ll you eat?’ and ordered the steak and mushrooms. “You don’t know what this means to me,” he said, turning back to the other two. “She’s such a nosey parker.”

Harry carefully took a sip of his water and edged a spoon forward. “I think that the Falcons should also spread their Beaters out. The whole team flies too close together.” Ron perked up, and joined back in. By the time Sirius came back, the food was at the table, and Smith had endeared himself to Ron by stating that the Cannons wouldn’t be such a bad team if the Beaters weren’t such misogynists. Apparently, they had a female seeker, and the Beaters never kept the Bludgers away from her.

To Sirius’ dismay, Ron had not forgotten about the promised ales by the end of the meal. Sirius looked around the restaurant, noticing that the Smiths were still celebrating on the other side of the restaurant and frowned.

“They won’t care,” Smith informed him, understanding his reluctance. “They say that liquor is a luxury which should be taken advantage of as often as possible.” That earned several more points for Zacharias in Ron’s book. He smiled to show his appreciation and Sirius groaned.

“Fine,” he said, realizing that Ron wasn’t going to give up. He called the waitress back over. “A Merlin’s Old Peculiar,” he said with a sigh. Ron grinned even further.

“One for me too, please,” he said. The waitress turned to Harry and Zacharias who both passed. “You’re not going to have one?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve had it before. Merlin’s Old Peculiar’s a good ale.” Ron frowned and waved the waitress away. Two Merlins later, Ron liked Zacharias even more, and Harry wished, belatedly, that his father had not agreed to this. Ron, it seemed, had an unnatural affection for alcohol even after his first drink. “I think we should start the DA up again,” he said. “I kind of missed it last year.”

Harry, who didn’t think it was such a good idea, but for no reason he could think of, was about to politely decline when Smith spoke up. “I think so, too. It was kind of fun.” He spoke the last word as if it were acid on his tongue, but Ron, who was not drunk off two ales—thankfully—didn’t notice.

Harry frowned at Smith, trying to convey with his eyes that he didn’t want to do it. “I won’t have time,” he said when Smith calculatedly refused to acknowledge Harry’s reluctance.

Zacharias smiled smugly. “So delegate.”

“Yeah, Hermione would love that,” Ron added. “Telling people what to do is right up her alley.”

Harry, who was able to see an opportunity for a decent segue when it happened, took advantage. “Speaking of Hermione,” he said, “have you had any luck?” Zacharias and Sirius looked on curiously.

“No,” Ron admitted. A bit later, after Ron had sufficiently complained about Hermione for not dating him, Harry was forcefully reminded that he’d agreed to buy a vial of Polyjuice potion while he was in town. He turned to Zacharias. Zacharias was safe, Harry thought—he would ask questions and make snide remarks, but he wouldn’t put up as big of a fuss as Ron would or give him a concerned look like his father would. Smith was safe; Harry could use that to his advantage.

“A word?” he asked, looking at the Hufflepuff boy. Smith cocked a haughty eyebrow and slid smoothly from the booth. Ron was still yammering to Sirius about Hermione being oblivious, and so didn’t realise, but Sirius had. He looked pleadingly at his father, and Sirius caught on immediately. He gave Harry a considering look, and then responded to something Ron had said with a ‘Perhaps you should buy her a book. I’ve heard of one called Magisutra from an Indian wizard named Vatsyayana’. Harry smiled gratefully and led Zacharias from the restaurant.

“What?” Smith asked, bluntly, as soon as they were outside.

Harry scanned the streets, looking for an Apothecary. There was one right across the way next to a second hand robe shop—or rather, he assumed it was an Apothecary; it was called Panacea and Placebos. It suggested that Harry would either find what he was looking for, or they would sell him something else entirely. He looked over at Zacharias.

“I need to buy something from there,” he said, nodding to the shop, “and I need you to cover for me.”

Zacharias stared at him utterly unimpressed. “Why?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. He had no idea, and told Smith so. “I suppose because you know the power of being in someone’s debt, and I’ll owe you one.” He paused, and then added, “Or—we could consider this a debt you’re paying me, since I allowed you reprieve from your auntie.” Smith sneered, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“That was not a favour,” he said, “but I’ll watch out for you anyway. You owe me. I’ll keep Weasley from looking for you.” With that, he crossed his arms haughtily over his chest and scowled, looking the other way.

Harry stared at him. He reckoned that he would never figure out Zacharias Smith. He was odd—haughtily sneering one minute and haughtily pleading another. It almost reminded him of Malfoy, but then Malfoy would never plead—haughtily or not—and he didn’t want to waste time thinking of Malfoy during holiday. With a shrug, he turned and walked into Panacea and Placebos, half hoping that they wouldn’t carry Polyjuice, and half dreading that if they didn’t, he’d have to use something Voldemort brewed.

A bell jingled over the door as he walked in, scrunching his nose up at the smells and most-likely noxious fumes. He hated the smell of potion ingredients. No one paid him any attention, and he didn’t mind that one bit. He walked straight for the back where the ready-made potions were in most Apothecaries, and frowned.

They were not in alphabetical order. He supposed that someone like Snape would have an innate ability to sort through any kind of potion cataloguing, but he also supposed that Snape probably would have just made it himself. With a sigh, he started at one end and began rifling through. Luck seemed to be on his side, however, when he located one last bottle of Polyjuice potion stowed behind two other poorly labelled vials. Carefully, he reached between them, trying to grab the Polyjuice.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Harry jumped, startled, and his arm knocked one of the bottles off. He tensed and tried to grab it, but missed. It landed with an anticlimactic thump in front of his feet, and he turned sheepishly to confront the shopkeeper.

“Yes,” he said. He was embarrassed that he’d been caught off guard enough to react that way, but the shopkeeper really had no reason to come up behind him like that. “I’ve found it, thank you.”

The shopkeeper didn’t move. He was an imposing man, even if he was shorter than Harry. It was the air about him. Harry suspected that all apothecary attendants were shifty-looking like that. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow.

“What were you looking for?”

Harry nearly rolled his eyes. _I wasn’t aware this was an inquisition_. “Polyjuice,” he said.

“It’s a controlled substance, you are aware,” the man said. Harry did roll his eyes that time. He was certainly aware.

He stood up all the way and tilted his head, letting his fringe fall away from his scar, and glared. “I _am_ aware. I can prove my age.”

The man eyed his forehead, but made no other inquiries. He nodded and then gestured to the potion vial on the floor. Harry followed his gaze, staring down at the little black bottle. The label was peeling, but it otherwise looked ordinary. Picking up the vial, the man handed it to Harry and then reached back and grabbed the Polyjuice potion off the shelf. “We do not often cater to the whims of celebrities,” the shopkeeper informed him bluntly, “but both of these are free to you. Take them and be gone.”

Harry fairly gaped at him. “Sir—I only need the Polyjuice,” he said, trying to hand the little black one back. He didn’t even know what it was, for Merlin’s sake—most likely a Mole-Enhancing Cream or some other equally useless potion The shopkeeper shook his head.

“No—you will need it eventually. Someone always needs it.”

Harry scrunched up his brows in confusion. “What is it?”

“Our namesake,” the shopkeeper said plaintively. “It is either panacea or placebo…or perhaps it is both. Or perhaps it is neither. You will know when to use it, and once you have, it will be passed on. It would not have come to you if it was not meant to be used. Now be gone.”

The shopkeeper turned and walked away into a backroom behind the counter. Stunned, Harry stared at the two bottles in his hand, shrugged, and put them in his pockets. At least he would leave no paper trails of buying Polyjuice from a Gringotts Bank Draft.

Outside, Zacharias was tapping his foot and looking surly. “Thanks,” Harry muttered to him as he exited the shop. Smith gave him a withering look and followed him back over to the restaurant where Sirius was just now leading out a grinning Ron.

“That Merlin’s Old Peculiar is really good,” Ron said. He was smiling at everyone who walked by. He’d only had two, but the beer was known to do ‘peculiar’ things to a wizard, and it would likely wear off in a few more minutes.

“We better walk back,” Harry muttered to his father as he absently waved goodbye to Zacharias. Sirius gave him an amused look.

Back at the Manor, Hermione was in the library and the noise coming from the kitchen indicated that Mrs Weasley had returned from the Burrow. He found Fred hiding in his bedroom when he went up to toss Ron on the bed and take off his coat. It was too hot for summer, he decided.

“What are you cowering from?” Harry asked the elf suspiciously. With Ginger occupied in the front garden, Harry had assumed that Fred would spend the time relaxing—however house-elves did that.

“Fred is not cowering,” Fred said. “Fred is rejoicing. Ginger has been outside for over an hour. Fred is very happy. Fred has had an hour to himself.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. He turned back to the bed and gave Ron a speculative look. It was fortunate that both Hermione and Ginny were occupied when they got back. He would not have relished having a confrontation with them with Ron in this state. Rolling his eyes, he pulled his friend’s shoes off before walking out. He made sure to tell Fred to make sure no one knew Ron was in there or went looking for Ron in there before he left. His room was warded—it could only be entered by those of Black blood or those invited by a Black, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Mates before dates,” he reminded Fred sternly as he was shutting the door. Fred grinned at him, delighted to be part of the conspiracy, and nodded fervently.

Harry found Ginny on the grass overlooking the cliffs. She was petting Hedwig absently. The view of the firth was especially nice—Ginny seemed to agree. Her eyes were locked straight ahead.

“Hi,” he said, dropping into the grass next to her. She hummed in acknowledgment, not even noticing that Harry was there until Hedwig left her to flutter over to Harry. The owl gave him an affectionate nip and settled in for much more focused attention.

ɤɣɤ

Ginny was always aware of the distinct distance that separated her from Harry, Ron and Hermione. She had never been one of them, and she never expected she would be. The thought of that didn’t trouble her as much as it once had.

Ginny never had a best friend. Not like Ron, Hermione and Harry were to each other, anyway. She never had anyone that she felt that close to, and she suspected she never would. The three of them were like one person—like a runespoor that operated with one body and three minds. She imagined that Hermione was the planner, Ron the critic and Harry was very obviously the dreamer.

Runespoors were notorious for biting off the head of the critic and operating the rest of its days with only two heads. Ginny could feel the dissention that was settling among the three of them lately and she wondered how long it would be before Ron’s head was bitten off. Runespoors were not designed—by their very own nature—to live very long.

Ginny thought that best friends might be like that, too. She’d wouldn’t know. Someone said something next to her, and she was startled out of her thoughts.

“Oh—Harry,” Ginny said, coming back to herself. “I didn’t even notice you come out. How did everything go?” It was barely noticeable, but Harry had faint lines of worry etched into his forehead. She didn’t bring it up.

“We both passed,” Harry said. Then he added, “Ron’s passed out on my bed. He talked my father into buying him two pints of Merlin’s Old Peculiar to celebrate.” Ginny noticed the way his lips curled very slightly downwards with those words. She nodded to herself; that was the reason Harry was troubled. Or at least part of it—perhaps Ron had drank more than he should have, and said something he shouldn’t have.

She snickered, trying to lighten the mood. “You didn’t let Mum see him like that, did you? She came over after you left to see if Ginger would part with any of the chores—oh! Hermione doesn’t know does she?” Even Ginny would never hear the end of it if Hermione found out Ron had been drinking. She didn’t hold to those kind of things.

“No, we made it back safe. So what did you do all day?”

“I finished up the last of my Muggle Studies homework this morning,” she said. “Then I came out here. I’m taking the Portrait Magic class this year with Dean, and I was thinking about what I was going to write about for the summer essay.”

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon chatting with Ginny about everything from Quidditch to all the classes Hogwarts offered that Harry had never considered taking, just because Ron hadn’t considered taking them. She was taking more classes than Harry, as usual, but she’d changed up her selections after OWLs to include Domestic Spellwork with Romilda, Parvati, and Lavender.

“Mum wanted me to take that so I could at least cook something for myself if I end up getting into the St Brutus’s Magical Creature Veterinary Program in Cardiff. I’ve also got Ancient Runes with Hermione on Wednesdays, then Magical Creatures and Pre-Healing on Fridays,” Ginny said.

“You aren’t taking History of Magic or Astronomy this year?”

“No, couldn’t fit them in,” she said, just as Mrs Weasley, looking quite smug, bustled outside and gave them a warm smile. “Oh, look at the two of you,” she gushed. “Dinner’s ready, come eat, won’t you?”

Harry exchanged an amused glance with Ginny and followed her inside. Ron and Hermione were busy levitating the plates of food out to the dining room while Ginger stood to the side, holding a water pitcher and looking put-out. Harry tried to help but Mrs Weasley frowned and pushed him and Sirius towards the table.

“Ginger’s not happy,” Sirius said, pulling Harry aside. “Molly was relentless—I had to let her cook tonight.”

Harry snorted and sat down at his usual place. “I don’t envy you,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it up to Fred.”

Sirius winced as he sat down at the head of the table. He gave Harry a pained look, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I know—he told me about the gender thing. I think I have it worked out, though. I told Ginger that if she let Molly cook tonight, she could redecorate the unused east wing. She seemed pretty happy about that, and who knows? Maybe one day we’ll have guests to put in it.”

Harry snorted again. “One can only hope.”

“Harry!” That was Hermione, who’d just sat down across from him. She had an excited look on her face and she was directing it entirely at Harry. “Your library is amazing.”

Harry grinned. “Thought you might like that.”

“Don’t encourage her, mate,” Ron said, sliding into the seat next to him. “She found some new theory to study and you didn’t have all the books referenced in your library.” He leaned in further, and whispered, “And thanks for…you know…letting me sleep it off in your room. That stuff’s really peculiar.”

Harry nodded. “No problem,” he said. “You two are staying until school starts, aren’t you?” he asked.

Ginny and Mrs Weasley sat down next to Hermione then. “Yeah, we are,” Ron said, looking excited. Mrs Weasley gave him a stern glance and he slumped, knowing what was coming.

“You’ll finish your homework before you play with Harry.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he liked the way Mrs Weasley said that. Surely, they were too old for ‘playing’, he thought. “Can Ginny stay, too?” he asked.

Mrs Weasley’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully as she looked him over, then Ginny, then Harry again. Suddenly, she broke out into a wide smile. “If Sirius will promise to make sure you both behave,” she finally said.

Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione gave him a surprised look, but he shook his head, indicating that it wasn’t what she thought. She frowned, and Mrs Weasley continued to gush. Harry smiled blandly and nodded when appropriate.

“See anything you like on those FDs?” Sirius asked quietly, elbowing Harry in the ribs. Harry blushed, and shook his head.

“Shut it, _Father_ ,” Harry said pointedly. Sirius grinned sheepishly and made a show of going back to his dinner.

After dinner, Harry played a few rounds of Exploding Snap with Ron because he just didn’t feel like being trounced at Chess again, and retired early. Both he and Ron were rather tired from their day out, so he didn’t need to load his friend down with excuses.

Hermione, however, was a different story altogether. She cornered him as he was heading up the stairs and gave him a look that he suspected a mother might give a wayward child. He winced, and wondered when Hermione’s maternal instincts had kicked in. It made him feel a bit sorry for Ron, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that because Hermione was already talking.

“Are you dating Ginny?” she asked. Her hand was closed rather tightly around his forearm.

“No,” he said.

“Are you trying to?” Hermione persisted.

“No,” he said again. “Just because I enjoy her company doesn’t mean I want in her knickers, Hermione, honestly.” He hadn’t meant to be so crass in front of Hermione—that kind of thing was saved for the boys’ dorm—but she’d been eyeing him calculatingly all night and he didn’t appreciate it. He just wanted to go to bed.

“If you are,” Hermione continued, oblivious to his plight, “Ron won’t mind. And neither will I, you know.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t like Ginny that way, Hermione. Merlin! She’s like my sister. It would be like…like dating _you_ —Not that you aren’t wonderful and an ideal girlfriend, of course,” Harry added hastily. “It just wouldn’t feel right.” Not to mention the other problem, whereby he wasn’t exactly attracted to women in general.

“All right, Harry,” Hermione said slowly. “I believe you, but you’re hiding something. When you’re ready to tell me—and Ron—we’ll be there to listen.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, yawning. “I promise, Hermione. Can I go to bed now?”

Hermione nodded roughly and wandered back to the library where, Harry suspected, she might have possibly set up a wizard tent. Harry sighed tiredly as he watched her disappear through the doors, and climbed the stairs for bed.

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 709th page.  


>   
>  __  
> 12 September, 850
> 
> _Beloved,_
> 
> _I have found, completely by accident, I assure you, something rather interesting. And I do not say this lightly, as you know that I am not a woman to leave anything to chance. I know that you are upset and impatient with me—I did not succeed last year. It was out of my hands, Beloved, you know that. I was never very good at Arithmancy._
> 
> _You were, though. And here I smile because it is you who will help me help you. After much pleading and bribing, the Necromancers from the Isles relayed their rituals and traditions to me last night. But they left something out on purpose. They did not want me to try to resurrect you._
> 
> _I forgive them for it, Beloved, as should you. They did not know you; they did not know how you changed the world just by being in it. I will prove them wrong now because one of them was not as careful with his literature as he might have been. I found the book lying open to the correct page this morning in one of their rooms when I went to fetch them for breakfast._
> 
> _You will be proud of me—I used that spell you were so fond of with your research. The one that copies text from paper. I have everything I need to help you on All Hallows’ Eve except for the Arithmancy, and that is where you come in. I am rambling; I know. Forgive me._
> 
> _In your study was your findings on this art. Even now, the practice is not wholly precise, but I trust your research. I will use the formula you provided in one of your journals, and I will succeed._
> 
> _It is not long now. I will see you again All Hallows’ Eve. I know you will be waiting. I’ve told our son that you are coming back, and he is beside himself in his happiness. You will love him I am sure. He is so much like you._
> 
> _With love,  
>  R._

ɤɣɤ

Harry drifted slowly into consciousness, wondering vaguely what had woken him. It was still dark outside, and he couldn’t see a thing. Slowly his door opened and he sat up quickly, scrambling for his wand. He aimed it at the door, ears perked for any sound, and waited.

There was the sound of someone stumbling and then a muffled curse in a feminine voice. He relaxed slightly. At least it wasn’t Voldemort. The person came forward and Harry could finally make out the face. He sighed in relief and lowered his wand.

“Harry?” Ginny whispered.

“Yeah, I’m awake,” he muttered, flopping back on his bed. Vaguely, he wondered how Ginny had gotten into his rooms, and then remembered that he’d added her to the wards. Ginny closed the distance to his bed and looked down at him hesitantly. “You okay?” he asked, a bit awkwardly, staring at her with one eye opened.

He could barely make out her face in the dark, but he still saw when the white of her teeth showed as she bit her lip. Her hair was tangled and mussed from sleep, but she looked quite awake. “Can I get in?” she asked.

Harry raised an eyebrow, even though he was pretty sure she couldn’t see it. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. After all, it wasn’t often that he had women asking to get in his bed. He couldn’t think of a single time, actually. He frowned at the thought: he couldn’t think of a time any boys had asked to get in his bed either, and that was altogether more depressing.

Ginny slipped in quickly, sliding under the covers and laying on her back. They both stared up at the ceiling for a few minutes while Harry waited for Ginny to speak, wondering if he should ask her if anything was wrong again. He didn’t think Ginny would come and jump in his bed for any other reason. He frowned at that thought, too. Was he selling himself short? He didn’t get a chance to ponder that as Ginny finally broke the silence.

“I had another one of those dreams,” she said.

Harry diverted his entire attention back to her. “Really?” he asked. “The same one? You were trying to find him?”

Harry admitted, if only to himself, that he still thought it a bit disgusting to dream about being in bonded to Voldemort. He didn’t say it; there was no reason to upset Ginny further, and he still had to figure out a way for her to not go mad when he killed Voldemort. If he killed Voldemort, he corrected grimly. There was always the chance that he could fail. There was no point in thinking of the other alternative, the one where they found a compromise. That would never happen.

“No,” Ginny said. “This one was different.” He thought he might have felt her shudder on the other side of the bed, but he couldn’t be sure, so he didn’t say anything about it.

“How?” he asked.

This time, Ginny definitely shuddered. “It was strange,” she said. “I didn’t dream of Tom Riddle or Voldemort this time. It was a different person altogether, and I was a different person, too. Actually,” she hesitated, as if embarrassed, and then added slightly faster, “I was a boy and he was a girl. And we were…you know.”

“Having sex?” Harry supplied in his sleepy haze.

“Yes,” Ginny said. Her voice sounded choked, as if she wanted to be sick all over his bedsheets.

“Are you sure this wasn’t just…you know, a regular dream?” Harry asked after several moments.

Ginny shifted on the bed and rolled over on her side to face him. When he looked at her, she was staring at him intently. He shifted closer to the edge of the bed, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the situation. “I’m sure,” Ginny said. “I can tell the difference. They feel different from other dreams—like memories kind of. I always get this really strange sense of déjà vu.”

“So you think it was what? A past life or something?” Harry asked.

“It’s possible,” she said. “According to that book of Hermione’s, anyway.”

“Right,” Harry said. He honestly had no idea what any of this meant or what to do about it, so he stared at the ceiling instead. It wasn’t very interesting. “We’ll figure something out,” he said finally. He’d been saying that a lot lately.

“Yeah,” Ginny said. He could practically hear her deliberating over whether or not to say something else. “What if—would it be terrible of me to not want you to figure something out?”

Harry frowned, glad that the darkness likely hid it from her. “You want to just go batty?” he asked.

“No,” Ginny said immediately. “No, of course not, it’s just…never mind. Can I stay here tonight? I don’t think I’ll be able to get to sleep again if I’m by myself.”

The uncomfortable feeling was back, along with hundreds of different results of him allowing that, including, but not limited to, Ron developing a taste for removing limbs, and trying it out on him. He hesitated.

“No one will know,” Ginny said. “And it’ll just be sleeping.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Just make sure you’re not here when everyone else wakes up. I don’t relish the thought of your mother finding you in my bed when she comes back over.”

Ginny said, “Okay.”

Harry rolled over on his stomach and buried his head under his pillow. He’d never had to share his bed with anyone before, and he couldn’t deny that it was uncomfortable. He was used to stretching out, sometimes ending up facing the wrong direction when he woke up. Determinedly, he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

It wasn’t working.

He was tired, and he could feel himself drifting off occasionally, but every time he did, he’d try to stretch out again and his limbs would inevitably brush against another body. Harry rolled on his back. When he felt himself drifting again, he was so utterly tired, that he didn’t retract his arm when he absently flung it across Ginny’s stomach. She was asleep. She was in _his_ bed. She could deal with it. Harry closed his eyes and went to sleep.

ɤɣɤ

The next morning, Harry woke up to the feeling of a warm body pressed against his back. He cursed under his breath. At least it wasn’t very late, he noticed as he looked out the window. The sun was just now rising. He extricated himself from Ginny’s tight grip and rolled over.

“You gotta get up, Ginny,” Harry said, shaking her shoulder lightly. She shifted and blinked sleepily up at him. “It’s morning,” Harry said. “You need to go back to your room.”

Ginny sat up quickly. “Oh, damn,” she muttered, scrambling out of the bed. “Sorry!” she added, and then she was gone. Harry stared after her, hoping beyond hope that Mrs Weasley—who had certainly flooed over by now to make breakfast—hadn’t gone to wake up Ginny.

Grumbling, he rolled out of the bed and wandered over to the bathroom. After a quick shower, he dressed, still sleepy, and went down the stairs. He was definitely not a morning person, he decided when he tripped and nearly fell down them.

In the kitchen, Mrs Weasley was sitting at the table reading the paper with a pinched expression on her face. She looked up at him when he entered and smiled entirely too brightly. “Good morning, Harry,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Harry, unsurprisingly, didn’t get a chance to answer. Mrs Weasley was already up and about, setting the kettle to boil the muggle way. She scowled at Ginger, who was already cooking breakfast, then shook her head and continued with the tea. “Sleep well?”  
“Yes, thanks, Mrs Weasley,” Harry said. He hadn’t, really, but he couldn’t very well tell Mrs Weasley that. She would ask all sorts of questions why and he had no good excuse other than the truth: that her daughter had spent the night in his bed, thus taking up all his room. He didn’t think Mrs Weasley would appreciate that very much. Wisely, he kept silent and accepted the tea from Mrs Weasley with a smile. “Thanks,” he said again.

“No trouble,” Mrs Weasley smiled. Harry smiled back, and then they were locked into some sort of odd smiling contest, during which Harry was confused and Mrs Weasley obviously knew something he didn’t. He raised his eyebrows expectantly as he sipped his tea, still looking at her.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

Mrs Weasley faltered for only a second before her smile was back full force. “No, of course not, Harry,” she said.

Harry looked at her suspiciously. “All right.” He sipped his tea for several more minutes, and when Mrs Weasley let her guard down, he casually looked over at the headline on the front page of the _Daily Prophet._

**_Boy-Who-Lived Not a Potter, Source Says_ **

Harry groaned and grabbed the paper when she set it aside to put another kettle on. He’d expected it really; he just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. It must have been that shifty wizard who did the paternity test, Harry thought. He seemed like the kind of person to sell other people’s secrets.  


>   
>  _  
> [London] – An anonymous source claims to have proof that our own Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, is not really a Potter after all._
> 
> _Harry Potter was seen in the Ministry yesterday morning with long-time friend Ronald Weasley, son of the Ministry’s own Arthur Weasley, testing for his apparating license. We are proud to say that both young men passed._
> 
> _However, Mr Potter did not leave then. Our source claims that Harry Potter then visited the Department of Magical Inheritances with Sirius Black and requested a paternity test. The test was given, and the results will astound you, dear readers!_
> 
> _According to our source, the test revealed that James Potter, who died, along with Lily Evans Potter in the attack by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on 31 October, 1981, is not Harry Potter’s father. Instead, the test revealed that it is Sirius Black, heir of the Black fortune and recently cleared of criminal charges._
> 
> _The Boy-Who-Lived and Sirius Black were both caught on Security Spells during their visit, and we at the_ Daily Prophet _are excited to show you those pictures. After a closer look, the resemblance is quite obvious. How were we fooled for so long?_
> 
> _What a scandal, dear readers! It certainly sheds a new light on once-venerated martyr, Lily Evans! What this reporter wants to know is, was James Potter aware of being cuckolded? How long has Mr Potter been aware? Was the Boy-Who-Lived the love-child of Sirius Black and Lily Potter, or is something much more sinister going on? We will be digging, and promise to update you, dear readers, on anything we find. – Gabby Gordon_

Harry set the paper back down on the table and glared into his tea, trying to will Gabby Gordon into an early grave. What right did she have to write about his mother that way? Had it really been necessary to add in her own opinion on the matter? If his mother’s name was about to be dragged through the mud because of some ridiculous article, he was going to drag the _Daily Prophet_ down with her.

In the library, he’d read that the Blacks had a tendency to go clinically mad when family was threatened or otherwise insulted.

It wasn’t talked about.

He narrowed his eyes. He had to admit that he hadn’t expected the media to take it out on his mother. Himself, of course, and possibly Sirius since they were both still alive and Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived, but never his mother. _Never his mother._

“Morning, kiddo.” Sirius ruffled his hair as he walked past, but Harry barely noticed enough to scowl properly. “Harry?”

He looked up reluctantly. “Hmm?”

Mrs Weasley chose that moment to strategically ‘go wake up the children’ which Harry thought was rather good form. He watched her as she slipped out of the kitchen, and when she was gone, turned his attention back to his father. Sirius was looking at him curiously.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry handed him the newspaper.

“Of course they’d go after her,” Sirius muttered. “I should have known.”

The response, Harry thought, was not as expressive as he had anticipated.

“Do we have a solicitor?” he asked.

Sirius looked up from the newspaper, which he had been rereading, and shook his head. “No. We did once, but,” he shrugged carelessly, “there’s not been anyone who needed one for sixteen years.” He paused. “Why?” he asked.

Harry gestured roughly towards the newspaper. “That woman attacked my mother.” It was, Harry felt, all the explanation needed. Sirius disagreed. “Are you telling me that I can’t do anything about this?” he asked, when Sirius still didn’t seem to get it. “You’re just going to let them get away with writing whatever they please about her?”

“I’m sure you could do _something_ with the right people, but the point is that it’s already been printed and there’s no way to take it back. They’re going to do it anyway; the more you fight back, the more they’ll want to write about it. Pick your battles, Harry.”

“This is ridiculous!” Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “What kind of Gryffindor are you? Aren’t you supposed to be about honour and loyalty? Why are you letting this happen?”

“Harry, this sort of thing has been happening to you for years, why are you getting upset over it now?”

“I’ve always got upset over it,” he said, “but now I can do something about it.”

“With a solicitor, you mean,” Sirius guessed. He shook his head. “No, Harry, the Black name isn’t a tool for you to use to make your life easier. Lily’s _dead_. She isn’t around to care, so you need to suck it up and do what other pure-bloods do: pretend it never happened.”

For several long moments, there was nothing to be heard but silence. “Fine,” Harry said, and pivoted, walking out of the kitchen. He held two fingers up over his shoulder, but he didn’t really care whether or not Sirius saw the gesture. Right now, he only wanted to get away from everyone and everything.

Damn it, he hated the _Daily Prophet._

ɤɣɤ


	11. Black Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/27/11.

  


The next two weeks passed uneventfully. Mrs Weasley remained at the Burrow for the several days following the article in the paper, but more articles came after that. And more after that. There were interviews with local wizards and witches who all had something to say on the matter—most of which was in one way or another insulting to his mother’s memory.

All Harry could think was that he would feel a great deal more charitable—and willing to fight a war for these people—if instead of claiming it was a political stunt, someone would just say they were happy he finally had a family. But right then, he wasn’t feeling very charitable anyway. He hadn’t said more than three words to his father in the past fortnight.

He had intended to take Ron, Hermione and Ginny to Eweforic Alley for a day, but instead retreated to his room to brood. He stayed there most of the time.

Ginny and Hermione had come down to lunch later in the day, and they spent the meal discussing it—or rather, Hermione and Ginny discussed it. Hermione had admitted that she was embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of the possibility that the newspaper would bring up Harry’s mother in that light. Harry and Sirius, on the other hand, were furious, even at each other. They stopped speaking immediately after that.

Ginny had ranted over what a disgrace the media was. Everyone thought that the _Daily Prophet_ had no right to portray Harry’s mother in that light. Of course, it was true that she _had_ had an affair, but it wasn’t the wizarding world’s business to know that. The argument had ended when Sirius scolded them, and an uncomfortable silence settled around everyone.

Ron had stumbled in after having slept all morning, grimaced when he heard about what had happened, and tried to divert Harry with a game of Wizarding Chess. Harry lost, and was put into an even fouler mood. Sirius disappeared for three days after that, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to go looking for his father. Once, Fred had mentioned having help in the garden, but Harry did not follow up the lead.

Bitterness filled Harry during the weeks after the article, and try as he might, he couldn’t shake it. He often caught Hermione watching him with concerned eyes, but whenever she tried to talk to him, he would retreat to the drawing room and spend the afternoon talking to his grandparents’ portrait.

They asked him where his father was, and Mr Evans bemoaned that he had no one to read the morning paper to him anymore. Harry, at the time, felt guilty that he hadn’t even noticed that his father read the paper to a portrait every morning. He wondered if it was a natural reaction to a revelation so shocking. He didn’t think it was, but he did think that it had been a whole lot easier when Sirius was just his godfather.

He did not search out his father; Sirius did not search him out, and days passed. Harry did not understand exactly what ‘family’ meant, but he suspected they might be going about it the wrong way. It was when he was thinking about things like this that he would catch Hermione watching him, but she had given up trying to corner him some time ago.

It amazed him how quickly something like that could happen. It seemed like it had been months since he’d spoken to her.

Sometimes Ron—who had begun to fill the time during which Harry spoke to no one with the Ogden’s in the liquor cabinet—would come in the drawing room when everyone else was asleep and they would spend the evening with that and an Exploding Snap deck.

Ron always drank more than Harry, and Harry caught himself wondering more than once if Ron might be becoming too fond of alcohol. Ron hid it—mostly from Hermione and Ginny, but he hid it none the less. Harry wondered how long it would be before Ron screwed up and Hermione caught him. He never mentioned that, though. It wasn’t his business.

One night, when Harry was in an especially foul mood because Ginger had kicked him and Hermione out of the library to clean the floors and he’d had to listen to Hermione bemoan it he opened a new bottle of firewhiskey and deposited himself in front of the fireplace. It was harsh and burning, and Harry didn’t like it, but he drank it anyway.

“Shame on you, boy,” Mrs Evans chided when she noticed this. “Evanses do not drink such common liquors. Have a brandy.”

Harry looked up at her and frowned. He felt tired and exasperated and a thousand other emotions that he couldn’t place, and didn’t think he would want to, even if he could. “We’re out,” he said. “Well, except for the really expensive bottles. I don’t want to open those.” The excuse, like so many others lately, was flimsy at best.

Grandmother Evans frowned and wandered out of the frame. Frank was missing as well—most likely off chatting with Arcturus on the third floor—and Harry supposed that Laurel had followed him. He leaned back on his hands and sighed. Neither he nor his father had explained to Mr or Mrs Evans what the newspaper had said about his mother, and he didn’t think he should, either. There was just something inherently wrong about telling someone—even if they’re dead, maybe especially if they’re dead—that their child was not perfect.

They were under the impression that Lily had been married to Sirius, and Harry was disinclined to correct them. It still rankled him, though, when he thought about it. It must have rankled Sirius as well since he had steadily begun withdrawing from Harry in the two weeks since the article. Harry laughed bitterly at the thought and took a sip of firewhiskey straight from the bottle. It was no better this time than the one before.

Dumbledore, still, had not returned his letter nor had he dropped by for the requested visit. Harry couldn’t help but think that that kind of behaviour was usually paired with secrets—or probably he was just busy doing things he thought more important. Neither boded well for Dumbledore’s reputation with Harry, especially with Snape’s enigmatic words filtering through his brain, but he knew the Headmaster was a good man, and he tried not to let his own anger change the way he felt about the man.

Sometime later, when Harry had gone through at least an eighth of the bottle, Ron wandered in. “All right, Ron?” Harry said. His words didn’t slur at all, and he felt cheated. They should have slurred by then.

Ron plopped down next to him and grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey. He took a long drink, handed it back to Harry and sighed. “Evening. S’appening?” Ron’s words were already slurring. Harry stopped himself from wondering if maybe they didn’t have anymore of the usual brandy because Ron was squirreling it away in his room. He stopped that train of thought as soon as it started—he was just bitter with the world; there was no reason to start questioning Ron.

Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore’s ignoring me, and the papers are still talking about my mum. It’s been a shitty day.” He carefully neglected to mention that Sirius, too, had been ignoring him. Ron wasn’t great with advice, and even if he were, Harry wouldn’t want it.

Ron looked at him sideways, and took the firewhiskey back. Harry didn’t argue with him; he wasn’t a big firewhiskey fan anyway—he had no idea why he was drinking it to begin with.

“Sorry, mate, about that article,” Ron said. “Even Bagman wouldn’t have bet on that.”

Harry gave him a look, and did not reply. It wasn’t worth the wasted breath, he realised. Then, more than any time he could remember, he wished he had a parent he could talk to about this—someone to advise him and tell him what he should be doing. And then, he thought of Sirius, and fought very hard to restrain a bitter chuckle. In the end, he lost the fight, but Ron didn’t notice.

“I think I’m in love with her,” Ron said sometime later. Harry, who had been staring at the empty frame above the fireplace and wondering if his Grandmother Evans would be a suitable replacement for a mother figure—dead or not—looked back at his friend. Ron’s red hair was a mess—fallen all over his face and in his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was staring forlornly into the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey and methodically chewing his lip. Harry mused in that moment, that other than chess, he’d never seen Ron do anything at all methodically.

He didn’t have to ask who Ron was talking about. “So tell her,” he said. The suggestion was accompanied by an indifferent shrug of his shoulders; Ron didn’t notice that either.

“No point,” Ron said. “She doesn’t love me back.”

Harry rolled his eyes—something he would have done anyway, even if Ron had been looking directly at him. “Yes, she does,” he said.

Any other time—any time when Ron wasn’t three sheets to the wind—he would have looked up sharply and given Harry a ‘you can’t be serious’ sort of expression. This time, he did not.

“I think she’s still writing Krum.”

Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione was not writing Krum, nor had she been writing him for at least a year. He also knew that, when she thought he wasn’t looking, Hermione gave Ron the sort of tragic, miserable look that the lovelorn characters on his aunt Petunia’s telly shows often gave each other. Ron had never noticed any of this, and Harry was tired of reassuring someone who refused to be reassured.

“Probably,” he said. Maybe he was drunk after all, Harry thought. Saying that had given him a sick sort of pleasure. Spitefulness, he realised. That’s what it was. Still, he didn’t take it back—it didn’t matter anyway; Ron had been expecting it, apparently.

Ron sighed, and in the process, the exhaled air fluttered his hair up and off his face enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of the dark shadows under his friend’s eyes. He swallowed, and turned back to the empty portrait frame. He couldn’t stand to look at Ron anymore.

The rest of the night was spent with Ron polishing off the firewhiskey and Harry listening to Laurel Evans—who had come back in a delicate huff (her husband was having a cigar, which she didn’t approve of, with Arcturus)—talk about her cousin Anna, who was mad, and killed herself on her wedding night. The suicide note, Mrs Evans said, went on a lot about dying in New York and snakes and guitars playing for everyone but her.

“My auntie was devastated,” Grandmother Evans finished.

Harry picked at his cuticles while he listened, and wished that something would _give_.

Sometime after midnight, Ron ran out of firewhiskey and Harry figured he might as well go to bed. He didn’t sleep very well that night, but then again, he hadn’t been sleeping well for the last fortnight. Ginny had not come to him again during that time, and since Ron had spent most of it—after his mother went back to the Burrow, anyway—getting pissed, Harry realised just how little he’d spoken in the last few weeks. It was a startling realisation.

He wondered if he should tell Hermione what Ron was up to, but decided that it wasn’t his place. Hermione wasn’t Ron’s mother, and Harry consoled himself with the thought that it was probably another one of those ‘boys’ dorm’ things. He hoped it was, anyway.

Consequently, Harry spent a lot of time in the library, since Sirius spent a lot of time in the garden with Fred. Hermione was always there—surrounded by piles of books—when Harry entered the library. They didn’t talk much. Sometimes he would ask her if she’d read anything interesting, but he was never too terribly interested in any response she might’ve given, and she apparently knew that because her responses were never invitations to further conversation.

Harry wondered if that was his fault. He admitted that he’d avoided her when she tried to talk to him, but that was because she only wanted to ‘help’ him, not talk to him. Or, at least that’s what he told himself every time they fell into one of those awkward silences that could only be broken by the turning of a page or one of them leaving the room altogether.

Friendships, he decided, were a lot harder to maintain than they should have been.

The next day, Harry skipped breakfast and went straight to the library because no one else would have been there anyway. His father had taken to having his meals in the garden out of a dog bowl, Ron would be hung-over and Ginny would be sleeping in. Hermione, of course, would be in the library, but...but.

He realised that he had nothing to follow that up with, and bit his lip. After being kicked out early the day before by Ginger, he was having withdrawals. Whether from the books or Hermione, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think it mattered. They didn’t speak anymore. In fact, the only speaking he heard lately was his father’s voice reprimanding him for being such a bad host. In his mind, he told Sirius to fuck off because he never wanted to be an aristocrat anyway.

Harry decided it was the books he missed, though he couldn’t be sure that he’d say the same thing under Veritaserum. He reckoned that nothing could possibly please Hermione more than another person who spent all their time in the library, but she never brought it up. Sometimes, even though they weren’t speaking—which he realised now was actually his fault—he felt better just being around her. She was a constant in his life that had ceased to be constant, but was still _there_. That was important, he told himself.

She was already there when he walked in that morning, but he wasn’t surprised. If she left at all—if she even slept in the room he and Sirius had given her—Harry didn’t know about it. She was always there, even during meals. He had no idea where she’d gone when Ginger evicted them the day before.

“Do you ever leave?” Harry asked upon seeing her sitting on the floor in front of one of the shelves. It was meant as a joke, but it was weak, and he only said it to break the silence anyway.

Hermione frowned up at him, and Harry realised he was feeling a bit guilty. Ron, Hermione and Ginny had come to the house to stay with him, and he hadn’t spent much time with anyone except Ron—and that was only because Ron was always in his liquor cabinet when he was in the drawing room. A wave of shame washed over him, and he smiled faintly because just from the look she’d given him, he felt something other than resentment and bitterness. That had to count for something.

“Yes,” Hermione said. She paused, considering her words, and added, even though the expression on her face said plainly that she didn’t want to say it, “It’s not as if you’ve taken time to spend with me…or even talk to me. You avoid me every time I try to talk to you.”

Harry sat down next to her and wondered why he wanted to wince when she said that. “it’s just…that article really got to me, and it’s obviously got to my dad as well because he’s acting strange around me. He doesn’t try to spend time with me anymore, and we’ve only known about this stuff since my birthday. It doesn’t seem like he would be tired of me yet.”

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and closed her book. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “I’m sure that it’s just hard on him. Sirius doesn’t know how to be a father, and with that article he was reminded of the fact that he’d done something he probably wished he hadn’t. He loved your mum, yes, but he also loved James. It must be very hard on him to be reminded of how he betrayed his friend—and very confusing, too, I would imagine—because he would also be feeling like James betrayed him by marrying Lily.”

Harry nodded absently, resigned to the situation. “But I really don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to, you know, at least try with me.”

Hermione put her hand on his arm and leaned forward earnestly. “I’m sure he does, Harry,” she said. “It’s just hard for him. He doesn’t know _how_ , really. You need to help him; show him that you want to try, too. He probably thinks you’re upset with him for betraying James, or something of the sort.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture that he realised he was doing more and more lately. “I don’t think he wants me,” Harry muttered.

Hermione gave him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Harry, that’s such a lie, and you know it.”

He felt a weight lift off him that he’d been carrying so long he’d forgotten it was there. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.”

“Ah, so you do read,” Hermione said, smiling. “I’d begun to wonder if you just looked at the pictures.”

Harry grinned at her. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to the original topic. “You always are,” he added. He suddenly felt a lot better about everything—not that he wanted to get all sentimental, but he would have almost said that he and Hermione had just had a ‘moment’. He wondered what Ron would think about that, and rolled his eyes. “So, are we okay? You’re not mad at me for ignoring you?”

Hermione gave him a patient smile. “We’re okay, Harry, just don’t ignore me anymore. Tell me when something’s upsetting you.”

Harry laughed. “Alright,” he said. Immediately, images of Ron getting drunk almost every night since their visit to the Ministry, Ginny crawling into his bed, and chats with Voldemort flashed through his mind. He wanted to tell her about those things, too, but he didn’t think she would take them as well as she had with the subject of Sirius.

“I wrote to Dumbledore,” Harry said a minute later. He wanted to distract himself from everything else, and talking about Dumbledore seemed to be the only relatively safe subject. Quidditch had never been something that Hermione put much stock in, so the only other failsafe topic was out. Hermione looked up again from where she’d returned to her book. “It was weeks ago, and he still hasn’t come by or even responded.”

Hermione frowned. “Why do you think that would be?”

Harry felt like he was in therapy. “He’s hiding something, maybe,” he said. “Sirius is alive. Someone obviously died at the Department of Mysteries. I wonder if Dumbledore knows who it is.”

Harry could see her mind working as she thought over that. She was upset with herself for not thinking about the situation fully when he explained it to her. “Maybe he’s just busy, Harry. I really don’t think he’s doing anything _sinister_.”

“But this summer, when Sirius came to get me from the Dursleys, he had no idea what I was talking about. He said he’d been in America since the middle of fifth year. He left right after Christmas, actually.”

“And Dumbledore never told you that it wasn’t really him?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“He probably didn’t know, either, then. Dumbledore isn’t omniscient, Harry, no matter what people might think. Barty Crouch Jr fooled him for a full year, remember? If someone was impersonating Sirius for just a few weeks at the end of May, and Dumbledore was busy with the school, then there’s a good chance he wouldn’t have noticed.”

Harry frowned. “But he’s so nonchalant about it, Hermione. All he’s said about it is that he’s sure Sirius is really Sirius this time and to enjoy my holiday—and ‘oh, by the by, here’s your school list,’ and that’s _it_. All of that in a letter, no less.”

“But you are sure Sirius is Sirius this time; he transforms out in the garden every day. No one else could impersonate him in human form _and_ animagus form. No one else could adjust the wards here at this house, and if a person of Black blood wasn’t here, then all sorts of nasty curses would’ve been activated by now. I’ve felt a lot of them in the library, just waiting for a Black to deny me access.”

That was news to Harry. “That sounds really dangerous...”

“It is, but I’ve been careful, and I’m checking every book thoroughly before I get near it.”

“Good,” he said, thinking that he should talk to his father to see what could be done about some of these curses. He didn’t want his friends getting hurt. “Well, why hasn’t he responded to my letter then?” he asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Harry, he’s the Headmaster of Hogwarts, not your mum. He can’t just stop whatever he’s doing to talk to you whenever you want. He’s busy. I’m sure he’ll find time to talk to you once you’re back at Hogwarts.”

There was one thing worth considering, though. Sirius’ death was never reported in the newspaper because Dumbledore didn’t let Fudge know, so the only people who knew were the people who were there at the Ministry. At the time, Harry hadn’t thought much of it—the _Daily Prophet_ would have only reported it as a murderer finally getting his dues, and he was relieved to not have to see _that_ in the paper—but now, he wondered. Did Dumbledore deliberately ignore it because he wanted to hide something? He asked Hermione.

“If Dumbledore had reported his death,” she said, “then he would have had to explain how he knew where Sirius was, and why he hadn’t reported it. It would’ve probably got Tonks and Kinglsey sacked, to boot, if not charges brought up for aiding an escaped convict.”

Well, that made a lot of sense. He leaned back against the bookshelf. “Who do you think it was that fell through the Veil then?”

“Well, it could’ve been a golem,” Hermione said, considering.

Harry shook his head. “No—I’ve been thinking about that—because no one else will,” he added, frustrated, “and I don’t think it was a golem. Those take weeks to make, and why would they have had one on hand to begin with? I think someone pulled a Crouch and Polyjuiced him.”

“But they would need Sirius’ hair for that,” Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. “He’s got a lot of it; I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had nicked some from him before.”

“Well, then who _did_ fall through then?” she asked, repeating his earlier question. “Shacklebolt, Tonks, Moody and Lupin were there, so it wasn’t any of them,” she mused.

“Unless someone else was Polyjuiced as one of them,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “No, I don’t think so—they all knew what happened. If they hadn’t been there, then they wouldn’t—besides that would be too complicated. The best plans are simple.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully. “But my dad says Lupin hasn’t been answering his letters,” he said.

“Then who held you back after ‘Sirius’ fell through the Veil?” Hermione asked. “It would have to be someone who cared enough and knew enough about the situation. No, I think Lupin was really there…although where he is now could be another thing entirely.”

Harry sighed. “Of course,” he said, thinking of all the possible convoluted missions Dumbledore could have sent him on. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable under the weight of discomfort in his mind, and winced. Something was digging into his thigh. Harry reached into the pockets of his robes, tying to find the offending object, and grimaced when he realised what it was.

“Here,” Harry said, handing it to Hermione. “It’s that journal I showed you. I’ve pretty much finished with it. There’re only a few pages left and it’s getting monotonous. All this woman talks about is resurrecting her dead lover. It’s creepy.”

Hermione took the bronzed journal with a delighted expression. “This is so exciting,” she said. “It looks so old! I wonder how old it is…it’s like a piece of living history!” She opened the front cover and read aloud, “ _’For you, my Darling, because even if you are no longer with me, part of you will always be here.’_ What does she mean by that, I wonder,” Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. “I think maybe the part where it’s bound in his skin.

Hermione made a disgusted face, peering more closely at the cover. “My word, it _is_. And bronzed on top. That’s vile.”

“No argument here,” Harry said.

“I’ll give it back as soon as I’m done with it,” Hermione said. Harry couldn’t help but smile. Even with everything strange going on, Hermione would always be there to ground him.

He looked at the book she’d set aside and snorted quietly when he realised that it was the very same book that the journal had been hidden behind. Published only under the initials RAB, the book appeared to be a discourse on dark potions. Harry couldn’t ever remember being interested in potions. “You done with this one?” Harry asked her. She looked up distractedly from the skin-bound journal and nodded once.

“Yes, I was about to put it back when you came in.”

Stretching, Harry stood up and ambled up the ladder to return the book to the third floor where he’d found it the first time. Maybe there would be something else interesting to read—all the Black family history books were up there, as well. He found Crookshanks dozing on the window seat that he usually favoured and frowned.

“Up you get, Crookshanks.”

The cat looked at him disinterestedly for several seconds, then lowered his head and went back to sleep. Harry half-considered swatting him out of the way, and then decided that Crookshanks had been there first, and he might as well let him stay there. He pulled his outer robes off and bunched them up on the floor to pad it better before sinking down in front of the shelf where the book went.

Harry’s fingers skimmed the bottom shelf as he looked for the place where the book went. He could have let Ginger put it away, but he’d just had a conversation with Hermione—which, not as bad as he thought it would be, was not as easy as it could have been. He was not looking forward to another one; the book created a distraction.

He sighed, put the book back and sat staring at the shelves. He wasn’t really in the mood to read, he decided. He half-stood, thinking it might be fun to spend the day with Sirius, then sat back down when he remembered that his father wasn’t really speaking to him. They were both too stubborn to apologize, he decided, but Sirius was the parent: he should do it first.

Harry shook his head. He was just going to get upset again if he started thinking that way. He would apologise tomorrow. He had muggle novels in his trunk; he would read those instead. Reading about someone else’s problems would ease some of his lingering bitterness. With a decisive nod, Harry stood and snatched up his cloak. He took the passageway that led to the portrait of his Grandfather Arcturus on the third floor to avoid disturbing Hermione, and didn’t notice the little vial of black potion that fell out of his robe pocket and rolled behind a book on the shelf.

ɤɣɤ

That night, Voldemort showed up.

“Two weeks,” the Dark Lord hissed upon materializing in Harry’s bedroom. It was near midnight, and Harry was reading a biography on Merlin. He jerked in surprise and inched backwards, trying to melt into his headboard. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to seeing Voldemort in his bedroom.

“What?” he asked. He tried to slow his breathing, but realised it was a lost cause.

Voldemort glided closer to the bed and peered down at him, red eyes gleaming with the reflection of the full moon outside Harry’s window. “It has been two weeks,” Voldemort replied. “I am ready.”

“I’m not,” Harry said.

Voldemort regarded him without emotion. “Have you not acquired the Polyjuice?” he asked. “I told you to be ready; you do not wish to displease me.”

Sometimes, Harry almost expected Voldemort to start using the Royal We when he spoke. It was completely ridiculous and sometimes unsettling, but his thoughts often veered towards the absurd when he was frightened.

“When have I ever pleased you?” he said defiantly, but didn’t look at Voldemort’s face when he said it. “I have it,” he added. He didn’t think for a minute that Voldemort hadn’t heard him, but at least he’d chosen to ignore it for the time being.

Harry did not want to do this.

“Very good,” Voldemort said. His mouth split open in a lipless grin and he motioned Harry out of the bed. “Collect it.”

Harry opened his mouth to say something scathing, but then thought better of it. It would not do to anger Voldemort when he was about to be in his physical presence. Warily, he slipped off the bed and went over to the chair where he’d draped his robe. The Polyjuice was still in the pocket, and he withdrew it without taking his eyes off Voldemort. Vaguely, he wondered how many non-Death Eaters had been so close to Voldemort for such a long period of time and not died in the process.

“Very good,” Voldemort said again. Then Harry felt a push against his mind; instinctively, he fought it, but Voldemort was much stronger than he was. In short order, there was an image in his mind. It was of an old, crumbling castle complete with ferocious-looking gargoyles, and likely held together solely by magic. Behind it were sharp rocky crags, and it was night, of course, but Harry couldn’t help thinking that it really needed lightning and a fierce storm to complete the picture. It was not somewhere he would want to be.

“This is where you will be apparating,” Voldemort said. “I will meet you there, and we will complete the Vow.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I get there?” Harry asked.

Voldemort smirked. “You don’t,” he said, and then he faded. Harry was left staring at the place Voldemort had been standing, heart beating wildly, and hoping that his father had been right—hoping that this honour thing was something Voldemort put enough stock in to not kill him on sight. Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry reached out to the wards around the manor as his father had shown him, briefly lifted the ones that prevented apparition, and disapparated.

He appeared in front of the small castle, and immediately felt that it was colder than where he was. It must have been quite a bit further north. He pulled his wand and looked around, feeling as though he was being watched. In the distance, he could hear waves hitting the rocks, and it sounded ominous. Harry tensed.

“Welcome,” Voldemort said from behind him.

Harry jumped and whirled around, wand pointed straight at Voldemort’s heart—or what was left of it.

“So jumpy,” Voldemort said, amused. His words were hissed through his bifurcated tongue, and his eyes were gleaming in malicious pleasure.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“Gaoth Dobhair, north of the Irish Headlands, of course,” Voldemort answered. He had not drawn his wand, and indeed, did not seem to even notice that Harry’s was trained at his heart. “The Bloody Foreland,” Voldemort explained. “Do you think it fitting?”

Harry stared, unable to speak, but his hand did not tremble. He could always apparate back. He _could_ —he kept telling himself that. Right now, he was okay. He just had to be rational.

He snorted to himself—apparating to the Dark Lord wasn’t exactly rational to begin with.

“Pity that you did not arrive sooner,” Voldemort continued. He was still staring at the rocky crags behind the castle. “At sunset, the light turns the rocks red like blood; it’s lovely.”

Harry made a sound that was half-cough, half-sob, and focused on steadying his breathing. He was going to die—what had he agreed to?

Voldemort took one last step toward him. They were nearly nose to nose. His wand, which was the only thing between them, was pressed into Voldemort’s skeletal chest. Harry stopped breathing.

“The Vow,” Voldemort said. He closed his hand around his left forearm and concentrated. A moment later, there was the crack of apparition, and Harry jumped again. He was entirely too jumpy. He needed to settle down. He was, also—he realised a moment too late—now out numbered. A Death Eater had just apparated in.

Slowly, Harry turned his head to meet the newcomer. “Snape,” he breathed. He was not sure whether he should be relieved or even more worried. Snape was staring at him in undisguised surprise and barely disguised worry. He, obviously, had had no prior knowledge of this.

“Severus,” Voldemort hissed, an odd smile playing across his lips. “You will not tell Dumbledore of this, will you?” Snape shook his head mutely, his eyes still trained on Harry. “Good,” Voldemort said. “Because if Dumbledore hears about it, you will only live to see the morning so that I may spend more time torturing you.”

Snape’s face paled. “Milord,” he said hesitantly. Harry still could not speak. This could all turn out very badly.

Voldemort looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”

“Milord,” Snape drew himself up, and put on his most indifferent face. Harry thought that it was a bit too late for that. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what are you doing with the Pot-Black boy? Will you kill him tonight?” Harry frowned; so everyone knew about his name now, and that Snape had slipped up at first showed how unbalanced the situation had made the potions master.

Voldemort cackled. “No,” he said. “No, I will not kill Harry—and neither will you. Harry is here at my request. He will be helping me with something tonight.”

Snape looked to Harry, face unreadable, and Harry did his best to give him an affirming nod.

“You’re to perform our Vow,” Voldemort said. He gave Snape a considering look and nodded. “Yes, you will do. Now, the spell.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Vow, Milord?” Snape asked. He looked questioningly at Voldemort.

“You’ll need your wand, Severus,” he said, and stared into Harry’s suspicious eyes. “You may go first.”

Harry bit his lip. He appreciated that he would be able to get his protection in before Voldemort, but he only had a basic knowledge of how Unbreakable Vows worked. He was going to have to wing this, and hope that Snape would let him know if he fucked up or left something essential out. He looked pleadingly at Snape, hoping to convey this, and was surprised and relieved when Snape gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent. Snape would not let him get hurt here, and even better—Voldemort hadn’t noticed the exchange.

Voldemort’s hands were cold and bony and Harry’s scar ached at the feel of them. “Do you,” Harry cleared his throat, “Do you, Tom Riddle—better known as Lord Voldemort,” he added uncertainly, “swear that you will not harm me through action or inaction while I am here?”

“I do swear it,” Voldemort said, and a silver mist from Snape’s wand poured forth and wrapped around their joined hands. A tendril of the magic wrapped around their fingers as the oath settled into their skin and magic. Voldemort was amused with Harry’s uncertainty. Of course he would be.

“And do you, Tom Riddle,” Harry continued, “swear that you will not allow your Death Eaters harm me while I am here—through your own action or inaction—and if it comes to pass, protect me with your own life?”

The last bit seemed to have caught Voldemort by surprise, but he recovered quickly enough. “I do swear it,” he said. Snape shifted uncertainly at the declaration and the magic again slithered from his wand over their hands. Harry looked to Snape—unsure if that was everything he needed to do—and received a curt nod in response. He sighed, relieved, and nodded.

Voldemort picked up with the Vow there. “Do you, Harry Black, formerly known as Harry Potter, swear that you will not attack me or harm me in any way tonight?”

“I do swear it,” Harry said.

“And do you, Harry Black, swear that any information that you learn here will not be communicated to any third party whatsoever—through action or inaction—without prior consent from myself?”

Harry frowned, but agreed.

“Do you, Harry Black, swear that you will perform the task I have previously asked of you to the best of your abilities while you are here?”

Harry looked to Snape, who had no idea what the previous task asked was, and considered. The wording was vague, but he couldn’t think of anything Voldemort had previously asked of him, other than the reason he was here tonight, that would put him in danger. Snape shrugged minutely. “I do swear it,” Harry finally said.

Uncertainly, Snape tapped their hands again and the magic sunk into their skin.

“And do you, Harry Black,” Voldemort continued, “swear that you will give due consideration to my offer, and not immediately dismiss it once the Vow has been completed?”

More vague wording. The Vow really wouldn’t be completed until he gave consideration to Voldemort’s offer, but it wasn’t anything that could harm him. Consideration was passive—he could do that, he decided. Harry nodded, and said, “I do swear it.”

Voldemort smiled a vicious smile, and Snape completed the Vow. “Excellent,” Voldemort hissed. He looked at Snape, and added. “I’m sure you both have much to catch up on. I’ll leave you to talk, and then, Severus, I expect you to show Mr Black to my study. We will be having a meeting this evening.” And then Voldemort strode off towards the castle, disappearing in the shadows before he made it to the door.

Harry exhaled slowly and looked back at Snape, who was staring at him with furiously glittering eyes.

“What have you done?” Snape hissed.

Harry winced. “I had to!” he whispered back angrily. Snape only stared at him, and Harry realised that he would not get out of this without a full explanation, but he didn’t think he had time for that. Determinedly, he opened his mind as much as he could and stared straight into Snape’s eyes. Snape wasted no time entering his mind. He rifled through all the memories of Harry and Voldemort meeting through their link, of Voldemort’s offer and Harry’s refusals. Snape shifted through Harry’s talks and lessons with his father, and Harry’s uncertainty regarding Dumbledore.

Finally, Snape withdrew from his mind, and stared at him. “Headmaster Dumbledore, I’m sure, has his reasons for everything. Whether or not one agrees with him is insignificant, as I’m sure you’ve realised,” he said.

Harry looked at him. “You know what happened, don’t you?” he asked. “You know what happened at the Ministry…who fell through the Veil.”

Snape did not immediately respond. “I do not,” he said, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “But the Headmaster does not, either.”

“Then what does he _think_ happened?” Harry asked.

He didn’t really think he would get an answer, but Snape still seemed to be a little off-balance. He looked at Harry with an unreadable expression. Harry could see the decision on his face. He waited.

“Sirius Black returned from his mission to America—and before you ask,” he added, “No, I do not know what the mission was—in May of 1996—five months after he left, reporting some small successes, but overall failure. He then returned to Headquarters where he remained until June of 1996, during which he, allegedly, fell through the Veil.

“The Headmaster then contacted Gringotts Bank and spoken with the Head Goblin. He was informed that you were the recipient of the entire Black Estate. You were then made heir to some of the properties, but the Headmaster left others in an indeterminate state, as you were still a minor.

“When Black returned this past June, the Headmaster was taken aback by his firecall. He seemed to believe the story Black told, but he set out to gather proof before committing to anything. Less than an hour later, I received your owl, and knowing that only the true Black would know where your muggles lived, and that only someone not intending you harm could remove you from there, I sent him to collect you.”

“Dumbledore was immediately alerted. He used a tracking charm and found that you were, along with another presence, residing at one of the Black estates in Scotland. Order members were dispatched and reported that, according to identification charms used by upper level aurors, the other presence was Sirius Black. As pure-blood residences generally have extremely dark and thorough protections on them, he was satisfied you were safe, as only a Black could have lowered the wards.”

“And he doesn’t know who was actually at the Ministry that night?” Harry asked suspiciously.

Snape smirked. “If he does, he has been careful not to let slip the information—information which I think rather pertinent. That is all I know.”

Harry gaped. “And what about Si—my father?” he asked.

“Snape was still smirking nastily. “That is something you will have to ask Black.”

“Right,” Harry sighed. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, disrupting it, and exhaled loudly. “Right,” he repeated.

“Now,” Snape purred, “I believe it is time for you to explain what you are _doing here_.” His voice was furiously quiet, and Harry shivered.

“He wants me to impersonate him at this meeting,” Harry said, still a bit confused about the whole ordeal. “I have to Polyjuice into him and direct the Death Eaters while he watches in animagus form.”

“Ah,” Snape said slowly. “And for what purpose?”

“I showed you,” Harry said. “He says he needs an heir; he wants me to be that heir for some reason. I’ve just got to prove that I’m not the right person for the job.”

To his surprise, Snape gave a loud, surprised laugh. “And who would you rather be the right person for the job?” he asked.

This gave Harry pause. What if Voldemort chose Lucius Malfoy? Or Bellatrix? Or any of the other, nastier Death Eaters? Harry would kill Voldemort just to end up having to kill his heir. It would be a never-ending battle. His life would never be peaceful; he would never be safe. “I don’t know,” Harry finally said. He really didn’t.

Suddenly, Snape grabbed his shoulder and shook him. He leaned down, face inches from Harry’s own. “Then you better figure it out,” he hissed, “because you are in far too deep to back out now.”

And then, he turned and strode off quickly towards the castle. “Follow!” Snape barked over his shoulder, and Harry scrambled to keep up.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “Even [Ludo] Bagman wouldn’t have bet” is in reference to what Fudge said to Harry at his disciplinary hearing for fighting Dementors in OotP.  
> 2\. “I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.” – _The Catcher in the Rye_ , Chapter 3, by J.D. Salinger.  
> 3\. “Pull a Crouch” is in reference to GoF, when Barty Crouch Jr. impersonates Alastor Moody with Polyjuice.  
> 4\. “Anna Who Was Mad” is the title of a poem by Anne Sexton.  
> 5\. The Bloody Forelands in Gaoth Dobhair really do turn red at sunset. They’re located in North-west Ireland.


	12. Black Robes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/27/11.

  


When he arrived in Voldemort’s study, his wand was still out, but he kept it at his side for the moment. The Vow would protect him, but there was no sense in being foolish. Voldemort sat behind a wide, elder wood desk and regarded Harry.

“You may leave us, Severus,” Voldemort said without looking at the Death Eater. Snape gave a bow and left the room, closing the door behind him. “The Polyjuice?” Voldemort asked, waving Harry to a chair.

Harry sat, and retrieved the potion vial from his cloak. He held it up for Voldemort to see—not quite trusting that he wouldn’t slip something in it if Harry passed it over—and waited. Voldemort nodded, and lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing his death-pale face in better light. Harry couldn’t help his eyes going wide when he saw the Dark Lord without his cowl. He actually had hair now— black, and glimmering like the Draught of Death.

Voldemort’s skin was still white and clammy-looking; it even looked a bit translucent, and his eyes were still gleaming red, his nose still flatter than it should have been, and his lips still thin and stretched. Harry’s stomach roiled. How could fight this man? For he was a man, no matter how evil—Voldemort was a man, and seeing him so human made Harry want to be sick. How could he be asked to kill another person?

The ritual in Harry’s fourth year had made him look the way he was. But he had hair now—thick, black, sinister looking hair that fell straight down on either side of his face. Harry wondered, if Voldemort’s hair had grown back, what else would realign itself into its natural form? He didn’t think much, if anything, else would.

“I have it,” Harry said, after the fact.

Voldemort nodded, reached up and plucked a single hair from his head. He passed it over to Harry and Harry tried not to think of how disgusting it was as he dropped it into the potion. “You will use Severus to call the others,” Voldemort said. “To do so, you will need to touch me while pressing the tip of your wand to Severus’ Mark and concentrating on the Death Eaters coming to you. Unless you think of someone specific, they will all come.”

“All right,” Harry said.

“I will be in snake form next to you. Nagini is already under a Disillusionment charm and will be patrolling to gauge reactions. I often speak to her during meetings, so no one will question if you speak to me.”

“Right,” Harry said again, feeling very overwhelmed. “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do?” he asked.

Here, Voldemort smiled nastily. “The purpose of this experiment is to assess how well you lead, how well you deal with situations you find distasteful, and what kind of decisions you make. You will open the meeting by welcoming them, and then ask for any new developments. I might remind you that anything you hear will not leave these walls. Is that understood?”

Harry thought of Snape, and of what he would be bringing back, and nodded. He could agree to that; he _had_ agreed to that.

“I won’t torture anyone” he said.

“I assure you that it is not a daily activity for me,” Voldemort said. Harry frowned, and Voldemort continued, unconcerned, “I will speak up if I feel there is anything you need to know, but otherwise, I will leave you to your own devices. Do not disappoint me.”

Harry shuddered. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, and then scowled. He did not want to acknowledge any sort of honorific with Voldemort. Voldemort smirked.

“We will have one hour to do this. I expect that we will finish with time to spare. Horvitz!” he called. Then Voldemort stood, and as he did so, melted into his animagus form. A large black snake that looked remarkably like Nagini slithered around from behind the desk and up Harry’s leg, depositing itself around his neck. A house-elf, Horvitz apparently, appeared next to Harry and stared at the snake wrapped around his shoulders. He noticed, quite belatedly, that it did not hurt when Voldemort touched him this time.

 _“Summon Severus,”_ Voldemort hissed from around Harry’s neck. To his surprise, the house-elf nodded and disappeared. Harry had not known that house-elves understood Parseltongue. _“Now drink the potion,”_ Voldemort said.

Harry did so, shivering at the uncomfortable feeling of his body changing into a much taller, much thinner, much frailer one. He adjusted his black robes to fit, and pulled his cowl up. His fingers felt strange on his hands, but he ignored it as he waited for Snape to arrive, assimilating himself to a new body.

Several moments later, there was a knock at the door, and Harry, unsure of his voice, called for Snape to enter. It came out as a high, hissing sound. Snape came in, looked around, noticed Harry was not there, and looked at the snake. He, too, seemed to be waiting for the command from his master. Harry cleared his throat and beckoned Snape forward.

As instructed, he slipped his fingers up Snape’s sleeve, which he’d held out for Harry, and tried to call for the Death Eaters. He could tell when Snape’s eyes narrowed in pain that it had worked. Shaken, Harry removed his hand. “Show me where to go?” Harry asked, and then added, because it was habit, “Sir.”

Snape gave him a half-amused, half-fearful look, and nodded. He was led down at least five corridors that turned and twisted so often he was almost sure he was going to end up back where he started, when Snape stopped in front of two huge, wooden doors. “Milord,” Snape said, bowing and opening the door for him.

Harry barely restrained a wince, managed to nod back to Snape, and walk into the room on shaky legs. He was in a room dimly lit with wall sconces and filled with Death Eaters. Voldemort hissed for him to walk to the front of the room, and he did so, noting with disgust that the crowd of wizards parted for him like water. He paused at the front, turned, and looked over at the crowd. Death Eaters looked back into Voldemort’s face with no suspicion.

Carefully, he scanned the room, looking for any threats. All of the Death Eaters were wearing their usual black robes and white masks, but a lock of long blond hair slipping out of a hood in the front row caught his eye. He sneered at Lucius Malfoy. Next to him, as tall as his father, but hair not yet as long, Draco Malfoy attempted to blend into the shadows. His white mask was less intricate than the others around.

Malfoy immediately dropped to a bow. Near his ear, Voldemort hissed out the equivalent of a chuckle. _“They all should have bowed by now,”_ he said with some disappointment. Harry raised an eyebrow and watched the rest fall to their knees. _“Your body language is different,”_ Voldemort decided. “They were waiting for a command.”

Harry nodded, both in disgust that Death Eaters were actually bowing to _him_ , and in agreement to Voldemort’s observations. He spotted Snape near the front and to his left. No threats that he could see. “Rise,” he said, using the script Voldemort gave him. It was not said very loud, but it was enough. Every wizard in the room rose as one, almost as if it were a practiced motion, as soon as he said so. He liked that, too. On his shoulders, Voldemort was quiet, watching.

“Welcome, my Death Eaters,” he said. His voice was still Voldemort’s, but his mind wasn’t—so why was he not finding this more nauseating to do? Death Eaters were submitting to him, and wasn’t that ironic?

They all murmured back greetings that ending with ‘my lord’ or some derivative, and fell silent again. Harry scanned the crowd, and his eyes landed on Lucius Malfoy again. _“Which ones should have news?”_ he asked Voldemort.

 _“Each of the Inner Circle,”_ Voldemort said. _“Elliot Parkinson, Bastian Zabini, Mercy Sinclair, Lucius Malfoy, Severus Snape, Andre and Harvey Beauvais and,”_ Voldemort paused for effect, then hissed, _“Yasmin Smith.”_

Harry pursed his lips. _“Yasmin Smith…”_ he hissed back, barely believing his own words. He knew it. She’d eaten at his house. He’d spent time with her son. He had considered the possibility that one or all of the Smiths might be Death Eaters, but…he could have been killed—no wonder Voldemort knew everything. He had spies everywhere. It was a sickening thought.

To cover his reaction, Harry moved his gaze to Snape, deciding to start with someone easy. “Severus,” he hissed. “Come forward.” He could feel Voldemort nodding against his neck in satisfaction.

“What news have you for me?” he asked once Snape had dipped his head and stood again.

Snape removed his mask and looked at him calculatingly, flicked his eyes to the snake, looked back and said, “Milord, Dumbledore is confused. The news with the Potter boy has caught him off guard. He was unaware that Black was the boy’s father, and is now in a state over it. He is afraid that the boy will be so happy to have a family that he will allow dark magic and bigotries, especially, into his mind.” Here, Snape gave an ironic little twist of his lips.

A wave of guilt washed over him. He wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what appearances indicated. “And does he think that the boy is so easily swayed?” he asked Snape.

Snape smirked. “He believes it is possible, Milord.”

Voldemort hissed a laugh from his shoulder, and Harry shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “That is something I would like for you to follow up on,” Harry said, going on instinct. “It could lead to a very interesting development. Anything else, Severus?”

Snape cleared his throat. “Yes, Milord. Dumbledore has been searching for something. He has found a ring in Little Hangleton that he wants to destroy, but he doesn’t know how. He is looking for a way to do so. I do not know the significance of the ring, Milord, but it seemed important.”

There was an angry, startled hiss from Harry’s shoulder. _“That old fool,”_ Voldemort hissed. _“Tell Severus to ask to help him research it and bring me any news of progress.”_

Harry relayed the message and dismissed Severus back to ranks where the Death Eater replaced his mask. “Mercy,” he called, deciding that Voldemort probably called all of his Inner Circle by their first names. When Voldemort did not contest this, he felt the tension in his shoulders slip a bit. A tiny woman in the front row came forward. Her blue eyes were all he could see beneath the mask, and they looked entirely too kind to belong to a Death Eater..

“Milord,” she said, curtseying. Harry nodded for her to continue. “I was hired as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts. I will start in September.”

Harry barely restrained from rolling his eyes. Would Hogwarts ever get a decent Defence teacher? He would have to watch her, he supposed, but by now, he reckoned he should automatically know to watch out for every Defence teacher. Because he couldn’t help himself, he asked, “And do you think that you will be able to teach the children well, Mercy?”

“Of course, Milord. I am confident in my skills.”

Harry nodded, and said, “Very good, Mercy. I trust you will keep me informed.” She nodded, curtseyed again, and returned to her place.

“Yasmin,” Harry said, moving on. The blonde Death Eater his father had unknowingly had for dinner several weeks ago walked forward and curtseyed. “You have news?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Milord,” Yasmin said in her usual lovely voice. “Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ twin daughters, Alsace and Lorraine, will be transferring to Hogwarts. Now that the Ministry has frozen most of their assets, they’re grandmother can no longer afford to send them to Beauxbatons. They will be in their sixth year.”

“And?” Harry prompted.

“The Ministry, and most likely the Headmaster, will be keeping a very close eye on them. If I may make a suggestion, Milord, I would not call them to be Marked until they have left school, if it is your desire to do so.”

Harry nodded slowly. How was it that he was surprised? He should have known Voldemort would have allowed children into his ranks. Was Draco already a Death Eater, or was he just following his father? He dismissed Yasmin, and, deciding to save Lucius for last, called Bastian Zabini—an Obliviator—and Elliot Parkinson, who worked as an advisor for the Minister. Neither of them had anything of interest to report. Good—that meant this would be over sooner.

The Beauvais brothers, who he called together since they both worked in the Muggle Liaisons Office, were young with brown hair and brown eyes. They reminded him of Fred and George Weasley as they finished each other’s sentences. Their skills with muggle computers had allowed them to, as instructed by Voldemort, hack into the muggle Ministry database and destroy records of certain people. They reported complete success.

“Lucius,” he finally called, feeling a surge of spite well up in him. He hated this man. He hated him nearly as much as he hated Bellatrix, who thought she’d willingly killed her own cousin. He didn’t think she’d had much sense of honour, and was delighted that Voldemort had rescued neither her nor her husband, Rodolphus, from Azkaban. Still, he realised with a small frown, he had no idea how Voldemort had managed to get Lucius out without alerting the Ministry. There were some things that Voldemort was very closed-mouthed on.

Lucius sauntered forward, and Harry felt his hate rush to new levels. “You have news?” he asked.

Lucius dipped his head. “I do, Milord,” he said. “I have brought my son to take your Mark.”

 _“I have not requested that,”_ Voldemort hissed. Lucius glanced warily at the snake, and then back to Harry. Harry frowned, and decided to go with it.

“I have not requested you to do so, Lucius,” Harry said. Lucius opened his mouth, but Harry, feeling very pleased with humiliating the man, waved him silent. “If I didn’t know better, Lucius,” Harry continued, “I would think that you have only brought him to take notice away from the fact that you have no news for me. You have made no progress with your mission, have you?” he asked, going out on a limb. He wasn’t even sure that Lucius indeed had a mission to make progress on.

To his relief, and Lucius was not confused. “There has been progress, milord. It is nearly complete.”

“I see,” said Harry. “And what of your son? Do you really think he is ready?”

“I do,” Lucius said, and with a gesture, Draco approached. He dipped to one knee briefly and rose again, standing nervously in front of Harry and the snake on his shoulders. Malfoy’s head was bowed, and Harry watched as it lifted. He saw grey eyes and the wildness in them that spoke of something he couldn’t make out. He had never seen this look on Malfoy’s face before.

He had no doubt that Draco Malfoy would one day be Voldemort’s, but today was not that day. He wouldn’t let Draco go down this path without a chance to change his mind. Even if he did know how to Mark someone, Draco Malfoy would not be that person. Malfoy wasn’t ready; he was here because his father told him to be.

He might not agree with it, but he understood Voldemort more than even he would like to admit. It wasn’t about good and evil—even if everyone else wanted to paint it that way because in the end, Voldemort was fighting for what he believed in, just as Dumbledore was, and just like Harry _wasn’t_ because all he’d ever fought for was his own life.

Draco Malfoy was fighting for his father. He wasn’t fighting for Voldemort, and Harry didn’t have to believe in it, and he was disinclined to interrupt his enemy when he was making a mistake, but he needed to do this, so he was going to do it.

“You are not ready, Draco Malfoy. You don’t know what you’re fighting for,” Harry said. There was a look of shock from both Malfoys. “But do not fret,” he added. “I will make sure you know. When you return to Hogwarts, you will be given the opportunity to understand, and if you have the ability to think for yourself, you will take that opportunity and learn from it. If you do not, then you are not useful to me.”

Malfoy looked at him warily. “How will I know who it is?” he asked.

Harry sneered. “You will know.”

On his shoulder, Voldemort was amused. _“He is afraid,”_ he said. _“I suppose that you will be this opportunity for him, won’t you? Oh very good. I think I will enjoy this.”_

 _“I have not said that,”_ Harry hissed back.

 _“You did not have to,”_ Voldemort said. Harry dismissed both Malfoys.

“Does anyone else have news?” Harry asked the room at large. A man in the back indicated that he did, and came forward at Harry’s nod. His gait indicated he’d suffered some injury to his leg or hip at one time. As he reached the front, he dipped his head to him.

 _“That is Edward Yaxley,”_ Voldemort said. Though there were few ways to add inflection to Parseltongue, and the name had to be spelled out in the strange language of snakes, Harry gathered that there was something off about this man, Yaxley. He filed the information away for later, and nodded to the old man.

“Yaxley,” he said.

“Milord,” Edward Yaxley said. “I have heard word that it will soon be time for the Dementors to breed. Their breeding season only occurs once every five-hundred years or so, calculated by complicated rune-work, but they will become restless soon, and when they do, they will begin Kissing without discrimination. Muggle and wizard alike,” Yaxley continued. “They need souls to breed; it will be a disaster if they are not fed before this happens.”

“What do you suggest?” Harry asked, feeling his pulse speed up.

“We feed them, Milord. If we feed them before they go hunting, perhaps we can head them off. If they are satiated, they will be able to breed without unconcerned hunting.”

“And who do you suggest we feed to them?” Harry asked, expecting a single-worded answer of ‘muggles’ or ‘mudbloods’.

“If I may, Milord,” Yaxley smiled, “I would like to suggest that we do not kill any captives we may acquire. We can store them until it is time for the feeding. Stun them, and then drop them off in front of the prison. Or,” Yaxley continued as an afterthought, “we could try to persuade them to feed on only the prisoners.”

Harry, feeling very nauseated, nodded jerkily. “I would like for you to create a proposal for me. We must deal with this before it becomes a problem. How much time would you say we have?”

Yaxley shrugged slightly. “Perhaps a year, if we’re lucky. I have not received exact calculations yet.”

Harry nodded, and took a deep breath. “Very good, Yaxley,” he said, and Yaxley nodded, and returned to his place. With Voldemort’s permission, Harry dismissed the meeting.

ɤɣɤ

The Polyjuice wore off not even five minutes after Harry returned to Voldemort’s study. The Dark Lord was still twined around his neck. Feeling very tired, he dropped into a chair across from Voldemort’s desk, and put his head in his hands, absently running his fingers through the fading yellow tips of his hair. It would be gone before he returned to Hogwarts.

“That man,” Harry said into his hands once Voldemort had returned to human form. He accepted the tea Voldemort offered him without thought, confident now that the Vow would protect him from the temptation of cyanide, and cleared his throat. “That man,” he said again. “Edward Yaxley. You reacted strangely to him. Why?”

Voldemort, who was again sipping from his usual gilded porcelain teacup with two handles, regarded him carefully. “He joined my ranks in autumn of 1951. He was my first Death Eater.”

Harry eyebrows shot up. This was certainly interesting. “Your first?” he asked, hoping for an elaboration.

Voldemort nodded and blew on his tea. “Yes,” he said. “He was the one who came up with the name.”

“'Death Eater', you mean?” Harry asked, not sure what name Voldemort spoke of.

“Yes—he says he got it from a muggle poem… _Her eyes burnt by cigarettes as she eats betrayal like a slice of meat. I must not sleep for while I’m asleep I’m ninety and I think I’m dying_ ,” Voldemort recited.

Harry’s questioning look prompted Voldemort to continue. “His sister was my lover. Calixta Yaxley—she was murdered by someone who proclaims to be against such acts.” Voldemort paused, considering. Harry could think of no other time that he’d seen the Dark Lord uncertain. He kept carefully quiet while he drank his tea.

“Edward thought it fitting,” Voldemort finally said with a harsh laugh. “To eat betrayal like meat—we would do that, he had said. We would eat the betrayal of her death, and make the world better for it. Retribution. Vengeance.

“It was my madness that changed our course,” he said. “I have never denied being mad. I have always been mad—always—since then, anyway. It was unavoidable.”

Harry was unsure of what to say. He felt—sad, and he had no idea why. Surely, there was no excuse for feeling pity for a dark lord. Uncomfortably, he changed the subject. “And the Dementors?” he asked.

Voldemort was staring into his cup, perhaps divining with the leaves, and he didn’t look back up for several seconds. When he did, Harry couldn’t tell that they had ever had the previous conversation. He looked evil again—fierce and malicious.

“You did well,” Voldemort said, nodding. “You asked the right questions. This is certainly something that has the possibility of becoming a catastrophe. I’m certain that neither the Ministry nor your precious Order will do anything about it—if they are even aware.

“Edward Yaxley is an expert on dark creatures—something that neither the Ministry nor the Order of the Phoenix puts any stock in. He knows what he is talking about.”

“What will you do about it?” Harry asked.

Voldemort looked at him. “Exactly what you suggested,” he said. “Yaxley will bring the proposal, I will look over it, and if it is workable, we will make arrangements to feed the Dementors.”

Harry felt an angry flush creeping up his cheeks. “You’ll just grab people and decide that we can do without them, and…what, feed them to Dementors?” he asked harshly.

Voldemort sneered. “Would you rather the Dementors Kiss anyone they come across—including those mudbloods and muggles you’re so fond of—or would you rather we choose people who are dangerous? Evil?” The ‘like me’ went unspoken.

Harry quelled under the force of Voldemort’s voice. “But it’s only your definition of dangerous and evil,” he said.

“Yes,” Voldemort said. “But better my definition of dangerous than children and muggles who could not perform the Patronus, would you not say?”

Just as Harry was about to make another angry retort, there was a knock at the door. Both he and Voldemort turned their heads, and Voldemort called for whoever it was to enter. Snape walked in, bowed quickly to Voldemort, and said, “Milord, may I speak with the boy?”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. “By all means,” he said sarcastically, waving Severus in. Severus paused, gave Voldemort a slightly hesitant look, and then wiped it away. He strode forward and stared down at Harry with glittering eyes.

“You are ignorant,” Snape whispered, knowing that Voldemort could hear him, “like Judas.”

Harry looked at him, utterly exhausted from not only the meeting, but also from the conversation he was having before Snape came in. He looked questioningly at Voldemort, wondering how in the world Snape could do this without being seen as a traitor. “He meant well,” Harry said.

“I beg your pardon?” Snape hissed.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, Snape,” Harry said angrily, “and right now, staying alive seems to be a good thing.”

Snape scoffed. “This war is over before it’s even begun,” he said, and behind his desk, Voldemort’s magic pulsed subtly and angrily. He, apparently, had had enough for the night as well.

“Always the optimist, Severus,” Voldemort said. “I fear that you are disappointed for it.”

Snape looked at Voldemort carefully. “It is anticlimactic,” he said, and Voldemort cackled.

“Indeed,” Voldemort said, nodding. Snape still did not leave. “Do you not have an Order meeting to attend, Severus? A report to make?” Severus, obviously, knew when he was being dismissed. He bowed once more and quickly left the room.

Harry looked back to Voldemort, aghast. “Do you never worry that Snape is, perhaps, adding more to his reports than you have authorized?” he asked. Surely, with the way Snape was acting, it would be impossible to miss.

Voldemort merely smirked at him. “Severus is a thrice-turned-traitor,” he said. “He always has been and he always will be. He will play both sides—never giving either side enough information to be useful but always enough to keep himself safe—until one side eventually wins. He has never truly been true to my side, and he has never truly been faithful to the Order of the Phoenix. He fights to survive, and only that.”

Harry gaped at him. “And you don’t care?” he asked.

“The difference between Dumbledore and me is that I am aware of the situation and value Severus for his other qualities. It is better to have Severus at least partially on my side than not at all. He is a dangerous man. Dumbledore thinks Severus completely faithful—blind faith, ultimately, one of his biggest flaws.”

“And you don’t worry that he’s giving away too much information?”

“No,” Voldemort said. “If he had it his way, this war would continue for the rest of time. He does not want it to end because then he will have to choose a side. He will never tell anything that could change the tides, and if I ask him specifically not to say something, he will understand that it is something that _could_ change the tides. He will not talk because he doesn’t want to sway the balance.”

“That’s fucked up,” Harry said, mostly to himself.

“Indeed,” Voldemort said. “And now, I believe that you need to get home. I think that you will have an Order meeting to attend very soon.”

Harry looked up sharply. “I’m not a member of the Order,” he said.

Voldemort smirked. “You will be.”

“How do you know?” Harry asked.

Voldemort gestured towards the door. “My thrice-turned-traitor has told me so.” He looked at Harry as he stood to walk him out, and added, “And do not forget to give due consideration to my offer, Mr Black. I will visit you soon for an answer.”

Swallowing, Harry nodded, and followed him to the door.

ɤɣɤ

Sirius was sitting on his bed when Harry apparated into his bedroom. “Where have you been?” his father asked wearily. It looked as if he’d been sitting in that same spot for hours—perhaps he had, Harry realised, ashamed.

“How did you know I was gone?” Harry asked.

Sirius gave him a blank look. “The wards,” he said. “You’re not the only one linked to them.” His father’s words were flat, emotionless, and only added to the awkward feeling of the conversation. They had not spoken more than three words at a time to each other for the past fortnight, and this sudden confrontation was not something Harry was ready to deal with.

“Sorry,” he said. He was rooted to the spot he’d apparated to, almost afraid to move—afraid to disturb the delicate atmosphere. His father looked up at him, and Harry saw dark smudges of exhaustion underneath his eyes. Suddenly, his guilt tripled.

“Where were you?” Sirius asked again.

“He came,” Harry said, knowing that his father would understand. “He wanted it done tonight.”

Sirius nodded slowly. “And you didn’t see fit to let me know that you’d left?”

“I…” Harry said, and then hesitated. “I didn’t think about it.” He walked forward carefully and sat down on the bed, pulling his cloak off and tossing it on a chair. “I’m sorry,” he added.

Sirius nodded. “No worries,” he said quietly. Harry winced again, feeling guiltier than he ever had before. The article in the _Daily Prophet_ was nothing compared to how he felt now. “How was it?” Sirius asked after several minutes of silence.

Harry leaned against one of the posters on his bed, and pulled his knees up to his chest. He shrugged. “All right,” he said. “It wasn’t too hard.” He paused, and when he figured that Sirius wasn’t going to reply, he added, “Snape said something to me while I was there.”

Sirius snorted humourlessly. “I bet,” he said.

“Why—what was your mission? The one to America that you took in my fifth year?”

Sirius was now fully alert. “Officially, I was to try to recruit assistance from rogue light wizards in New England.”

“Rogue light wizards?” Harry asked dubiously. It seemed to almost be an oxymoron.

Sirius nodded. “Wizards who only use pure light magic but disagree with their Ministry.”

“And unofficially?” Harry asked. Sirius, he realised, had not expected him to catch the wording.

His father frowned. “Unofficially, I believe it was a suicide mission,” he said carefully. “Though I’ve never been sure.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. “You’re joking,” he said.

Sirius shrugged. “Not joking, but I’m probably wrong…those light wizards are notorious for ‘exterminating’,” he finger quoted, “anyone who uses dark magic or has used it in the past. They claim that they’re cleaning the world of taint.”

Harry laughed. “You can’t be serious—that’s…that’s over half the wizarding population of the world!” he exclaimed.

Sirius shrugged. “They certainly didn’t take well to me—said they could smell it on me, the magic I mean, and that I smelled rancid.”

Harry considered that. “You’re not joking,” he said, almost unbelievingly. Then, “Why did you stay so long then? Didn’t you communicate with Dumbledore during that time? Tell him what was happening?”

Sirius shook his head. “Dumbledore said it would be too dangerous to communicate,” he explained. “Any letters could be intercepted by the Ministry and they would arrest me—I’m not known in America, so I didn’t have to hide. He just told me to come back when I’d either convinced them to help the war effort or exhausted my resources and contacts.”

“And that didn’t happen until this June?” Harry asked.

Sirius shrugged. “There’re a lot of wizards in New England. It took a while.”

“But Snape said you came back in May of that year,” Harry said. “He said that you came back after a few months and went back to Grimmauld Place. And that you stayed there until that June when you went to the Ministry.”

Sirius shrugged. “I didn’t,” he said, “and I don’t know who _did_.”

“And you aren’t worried about that? You aren’t concerned?”

“Not really,” Sirius said. “I’m alive. Dumbledore has his secrets, and I doubt I’ll ever learn many of them. This war is bigger than me, and my questions answered won’t save the world.”

“But…” Harry said. He paused, and changed directions. He could already tell from his father’s expression that he would get no more answers from that line of questioning. “Then why didn’t you tell Dumbledore where we were going?” he asked instead.

Sirius only looked at him. “Do you really think that he’d have let me take you if I’d asked first? There was a reason you needed to stay with your relatives. You know that.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that, and it _did_ fit with Sirius’ personality and everything Snape had said. He sighed. He would get no more answers tonight. They sat in an awkward silence for several minutes, and then Sirius cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he said.

Harry looked up. “Me, too,” he said, and that was the end of that. He had to admit that it was much better than having to ‘talk out their problems’ before they came to an agreement. He smiled at his father and scooted closer so that they were both leaning back against the headboard.

“We should get your school supplies tomorrow,” Sirius said. Harry nodded. That sounded like a good idea.

ɤɣɤ

The next morning, Harry woke up on something lumpy and with a crick in his neck. He lifted his head slowly and twisted it, trying to ease the kinked muscles. Looking down, he realised that whatever lumpy it was that he’d slept on had actually been another body. Padfoot’s body, to be precise. He supposed they’d fallen asleep; they had spent a long time talking, after all. Harry wasn’t entirely surprised.

He felt better, though, he realised—even if he did have a crick in his neck. After two weeks, everything was better between them, and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time: school started back in two days. Harry would have hated to leave for Hogwarts without having made up with his father. The talking had done them good, he decided.

He stretched and rolled off the bed, trying not to wake up his dad, but somehow tangled himself in the sheets and fell to the floor with a loud thump. He looked up, and Sirius’ sleepy face was staring down at him curiously.

“You didn’t sleep down there did you?” he asked.

Harry scowled. “Of course not,” he said. He tried to stand and his legs, still tangled in the duvet, betrayed him. He fell again. Sirius laughed.

Harry scowled again. “Stop laughing and help me, you git!”

His father rolled his eyes and exited the bed on the other side, walking around and staring down at Harry in obvious amusement. Sirius cocked his head to the side innocently and put his hands on his hips. “What do I get out of it?” he asked.

Harry looked at him sadly. “My love.” He felt like he was trying to untangle a thin-linked necklace that had been stored away for decades; he was getting more and more tangled the more he tried to untangle himself.

Sirius grinned brightly and pulled out his wand. The spell he cast lifted Harry in the air and spun him widdershins very fast until he’d been unrolled, then deposited him back on the floor. A few minutes later, he was no longer about to be sick, and he gave Sirius a determined sneer before he padded off to the toilet for a shower. “We have to get my school supplies today,” he reminded his father over his shoulder. “And Ron, Hermione and Ginny’s as well.”

“Righto,” Sirius called, and then the sound of his bedroom door shutting informed him that he was alone. Harry turned on the water tap and the citrus-scented soap faucet to wake him up. Hot steam filled the room and Harry sighed happily. It was going to be a very good day.

ɤɣɤ

After breakfast, all five of them left River House and headed for Edinburgh.

“Head Girl!” Hermione was saying happily as they walked down the gravel path leading away from River House. She waved her school letter, which had only come that morning, in the air. “I just can’t believe it. I’m so pleased, but who’s Head Boy?”

Harry exchanged a weary glance with Ron, who was still only a prefect. “Not me,” Ron said.

“Nor me,” Harry added unhelpfully. Of course, Hermione already knew this. Ron had shown her his own letter when it arrived at breakfast, along with Ginny’s, and Harry had explained that he’d got his earlier in the summer. There had been no Head Boy badge in it, not as if he’d expected one.

“It’ll probably be Anthony Goldstein,” Hermione mused.

“Nah,” Ron said. “It’ll be our luck that it’s Malfoy.”

Harry, Ginny and Hermione all sent Ron a withering look. Harry certainly hoped it wasn’t Malfoy; he was bad enough as a prefect. Ginny, who had been made prefect the year before, was one again, and Harry had been made Quidditch captain. That suited him just fine—he got to use the prefect’s bathroom, and that was good enough for him.

“Do you all have your lists?” Sirius asked. He was walking between Harry and Ginny and trying to keep out of the conversation as much as he could, but he really didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to the manor if one of them had left it behind.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’ll need extra books,” he added. “I’m taking beginning Arithmancy this year.”

Hermione made another happy sound, the excitement of a new school year almost two much for her to bear. “Oh Harry, that’s wonderful! You’ll need the same book I have for Advanced Arithmancy. We can study together.” Harry cringed.

“I’m taking it next year,” Ginny said. “Can I use your book after you leave, Hermione?”

Ron frowned. “Am I the only one not taking that nancy class?” he asked disgustedly. “Why in the world would anyone want to take that class? I heard it’s really hard.”

“Seemed interesting,” Harry said. “Besides, anything’s got to be better than better than Divination.”

Ron could not argue with that. Instead, he pulled a Chocolate Frog from his pocket. It had probably been nicked from the supply he and Ginny gave Harry for his birthday, now that Harry thought about it. He shoved the chocolate in his mouth and frowned down at the card. “I still don’t know what to do with these cards,” he said around a mouthful of frog. “I’ve got another Glenda the Good. Anyone need that one?”

“Oh, I do,” Ginny said. She tucked it safely in her pocket. “Did you finish your set?”

“Yeah, I got Ptolemy the other day, and now I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Maybe you should write in to the company and suggest new cards for them to make. Then you would have more to collect,” Sirius suggested.

“That’s an excellent idea!” Hermione said. Ron licked some chocolate from his lips and looked thoughtful. “Think of all the wizards and witches who aren’t on the cards but deserve recognition! Oh—they could even turn it into a charity drive of some sort; a portion of the proceeds from the new set could help less fortunate wizards! Do you know who makes them?”

Sirius nudged Harry playfully in the ribs; Hermione was a force when she got an idea. They shared a quiet snicker and turned back to her. “The Chortling Chocolate Company,” Sirius said

Ginny nodded. “Yeah, but who would you suggest they put on the cards?” she asked.

Hermione bounced. “Oh—we could send in Professor McGonagall and Mad-Eye Moody and…”

“Death Eaters,” Harry interrupted. Everyone looked around quickly, suspiciously drawing their wands, but when they saw no Death Eaters, they turned back to him in confusion.

“What?” Ron asked, confusion all over his face.

“Death Eaters,” Harry repeated. “They could put Death Eaters on the cards.”

“Death Eaters don’t deserve recognition,” Hermione said.

“No, it’s brilliant,” he said. “They might not deserve good recognition, but they’re still important figures in our society. The cards could work as identification so that children recognise them if they see them. It would be like a public service.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he said. “Peculiar and slightly unnerving, but interesting none the less.” Hermione seemed to be considering it now, too. She gave Harry a curious look.

“That _is_ a good idea, actually,” she said. She would have said more, but they arrived at the shoddy bar, The Burning Man, and Sirius gestured them towards the door. Her words were cut off by the shocked look on her face as she took in the decor.

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The line Voldemort recites—that he says his Death Eaters are named for—is part of a poem called “Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)” by Anne Sexton. I realise that it was not published until 1971, so I like to think that the Death Eaters weren’t named until then.  
> 2\. Voldemort was born in 1929, so that would make him 32 when Calixta died, when he went insane.  
> 3\. Glenda the Good (Witch of the North) is from the Wizard of Oz.


	13. Black Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/29/11.

  


As soon as they were inside, Hermione lost her train of thought and picked up a new one. “This is appalling!” she said. The barman looked up and sneered at them so Sirius rushed them towards the loos. “Take the last stall,” Sirius said to Hermione and Ginny as he pointed them to one of the two doors marked ‘Witches. “We’ll meet you on the other side.”

He led Ron into the other door. Harry lingered long enough to give the barman an apologetic wave before following. Ron and Sirius were already through, so he took the portal alone and stepped out into Eweforic Alley. Hermione and Ginny exited the door next to him immediately afterwards.

“I can’t believe no wizards have complained about that! It was so gruesome!” Hermione said. Ginny was nodding in agreement. “Vulgar, really,” Hermione amended.

“Yeah,” Ron said with a shudder. “I don’t know how they get away with that. Even the muggles would be offended, I would think.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Harry said. Everyone looked at him. It seemed he was saying a lot of shocking things that day. He shrugged. “There’s a muggle restaurant that specialises in being offensive. The waiters even make you refill your own drinks—and they swear at you and insult you when they take your order.”

Sirius, Ron and Ginny gaped. “You’re kidding,” Ginny said.

“No,” Harry said. “My cousin went to the one in London with some of his friends. I overheard him talking about it.”

Hermione frowned. “I’ve heard of that place. I don’t understand why anyone would want to eat there.”

“To the bookshop first, then?” Harry asked, hoping to get Hermione’s mind off of The Burning Man as well. Paige and Bound’s Book Shop was on Morgause Street in west Eweforic Alley right across from The Magic Eye, where Harry had once read English hieroglyphics. It was twice the size of Flourish and Blott’s in Diagon Alley and twice as modern.

Hermione seemed to be wavering between uncertainty for the safety of the books—because the book shelves were made out of sheet metal—and adoration—because the shelves reached all the way to the ceiling. There was a bell over the door that seemed wholly out of place for the sleek, shiny atmosphere, and it jingled as they entered.

“Oh, this is…this is huge,” Hermione said. Her eyes were aimed upwards, trying to locate the top of the shelves and failing. They were really high. Ron groaned and pulled out his book list.

“We all need Defence, Transfigurations and Charms,” he said, reading off the list. Ginny wandered off to collect her own books and Sirius stepped over to the financial investing section. Harry sent his father's back a curious look and turned back to his friend.

“Do you suppose we’ll have a decent teacher for Defence this year?” Hermione asked.

Harry knew exactly who was going to be their Defence teacher, but he didn’t know if she would be any good. He supposed she might be, given how well she seemed to be acquainted with the dark arts, but he didn’t know if she could actually _teach_. Furthermore, he didn’t know that she wouldn’t try to kill him. He considered telling Dumbledore, but then remembered that the Vow would destroy his magic if he did, and hopefully, that bit about Snape not letting anything happen that would change the tides of the war was true.

But then again, Snape had his own agenda. Regardless, he had sworn an oath that said he could not speak of anything he learned unless given explicit permission, and Voldemort had not given him that permission. He didn’t think Snape thought his life was worth a bit of gossip. Really, by now they shouldn’t have been surprised that their Defence teacher was a Death Eater—but Hermione and Ron didn’t know that.

“Who knows,” Harry said, shrugging. Hermione hummed curiously and started off for the shelf of Defence books. “I’ve got to get Arithmancy and Potions books,” Harry said to Ron.

Ron looked up and frowned. “I can’t believe you’re taking Arithmancy. That’s a lot of classes with Divination and Potions, too.”

Harry gave him a sheepish look. “I dropped Divination.”

Ron groaned. “Great—now I’ll be with Trelawney by myself.”

“Smith’s taking Divination,” Harry offered. “You can study with him.”

Ron frowned. “He’s growing on me,” he said, as if he disbelieved his own words. Harry couldn’t imagine Smith growing on _anyone_ —almost as much as he could imagine Malfoy growing on someone. The thought of Malfoy made him scowl—he was such a brat. He wasn’t even good enough for _Voldemort_ , and _that_ said a lot, Harry thought.

Hermione came back, arms loaded with books, and shook a stray hair off of on her face. “I got all of our books. I almost picked up Muggle Studies this year, and changed my mind at the last minute. The textbook looks really interesting—do you suppose I should ask Professor McGonagall if I can add it?” she asked. She was holding a thick textbook with a picture of a toaster on the front.

Harry looked at her. “Hermione—your parents are muggles. That would be like Fleur taking a French class.”

Hermione scowled, added the book to her pile and asked, “Do you know that she’s working at Gringotts now?”

“Really?” Ron asked, looking excited. Hermione shot him a glare and he struggled to wipe the goofy grin off of his face. “That’s interesting,” he said, making an attempt at a bland voice. Harry rolled his eyes and turned when he felt a hand land on his shoulder.

“Look, I was thinking,” Sirius said with a grin. “It’s going to be lonely without you in the house this year; I’m thinking about investing,” he said and waved a magazine in Harry’s face.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Hermione said. “What are you going to invest in?”

Sirius shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m getting this magazine. Maybe it’ll give me some ideas.”

“You can invest in the twin’s joke shop,” Ron offered. “They’re doing really well,” he added. “Mum’s given up on them going back to school.”

Ginny came back then with her books and they went to the counter to pay. Arithmancy books, Harry discovered, were expensive. Hermione picked up a new copy for him because ‘whoever owned it before could have made incorrect notes in the margins’ and ‘Arithmancy is a very precise study; you can never be too careful with your work’. Harry shrugged and paid, using money Sirius had given him from the Black vaults because it didn’t feel right to use the Potter vaults now. He would have to think of some use for that money, since there were no Potters left and it would end up going to the Ministry if he refused it. Perhaps a charity.

The next stop was the Ichebod’s Ink and Paper, the quill and parchment shop where they all picked up parchment, journals and a few extra quills. Hermione and Ginny needed new cauldrons so they stopped at the apothecary that Harry had visited before, Panacea and Placebos. The shopkeeper that had ‘helped’ Harry before was not there that day, and Harry was relieved.

Next, they headed over to the robe shop across the way to get new uniforMs All four of them had outgrown the ones they wore the year before. Ginny’s birthday had been on the eleventh of August—just a couple weeks before—so Sirius demanded that he buy her new robes as a birthday present, and then refused to let Ron shop at the second-hand robe shop across from Merlin’s Magic Mushroom because ‘we’re already here and there’s no sense traipsing all the way up Myrrdin Street for them’. Harry thought that that had been a very clever manipulation. Sirius paid for Ron's robes as well—“As a thank you for keeping Harry occupied this summer”—and Ron felt too guilty to argue.

On the way back to The Burning Man, they passed a pet shop where Ron and Ginny were attacked by two small red creatures that looked half-cat and half-miniature bear. “They’re called Red Rumbles,” Hermione explained as she pried one of them from Ginny’s shoulder. “They try to mate with anything that’s red.”

Harry grimaced. “Gross,” he said. Ron gave him a look that said he agreed as he tried to pry his own Red Rumble off of his thigh. “Why the ‘Rumble’ part?” Ron asked. He was still struggling with his, so Harry moved to help.

“Because a successful mating results in a loud purring,” Hermione said. She deposited Ginny’s Red Rumble back in the cage it had somehow escaped from. It landed on top of another one and immediately started rumbling.

“I don’t think we need one of those at the Burrow,” Ron said. Harry finally got the Red Rumble free from Ron’s hair and tossed it back into the cage. It, too, started rumbling. Hermione made a fascinated noise and Ginny had to drag her away. They had a quick lunch in The Burning Man, where Hermione and Ginny complained a good deal.

“This is just beyond the pale,” Hermione was saying as she nibbled at her order of Fried Fries. Sirius, who was happily munching on a Burnt Bundt Cake, shrugged indifferently and stole one of Harry’s Sizzling Stake Steak Strips while Ron and Ginny shared a huge order of Vanilla Fire-Cream. She blew the table lantern out and the little wicker man winked at her. “Disgusting,” she added.

Harry agreed, but said nothing. His mind had been on something entirely different ever since his food had come out. A wizard in Brighton had accidentally cast Incendio on himself the week before, according to the _Daily Prophet_ the man at the table behind them was reading. He grimaced and slid his plate across to Ron.

ɤɣɤ

The Order meeting Voldemort had prophesised did indeed happen. Ginger was waiting for them at the gates when they walked back to River House after lunch.

“Master Black received a floo call,” she said.

“Oh, from who?”

“Mister Dumblydore,” she said. “He says Master Black, Young Master and Young Master’s friends are to go immediately to Headquarters.”

Sirius gave Harry a look out of the corner of his eye and Harry looked away. Ron, who was looking like he was about ready for a drink, suddenly perked up, and Hermione’s eyes widened. Ginny caught Harry’s eye and frowned.

“Thank you,” Sirius said. He pushed the four of them towards the house, frowning the whole time. “Do you know what this is about?” he whispered to Harry, who was walking a bit behind the other three. Ginny looked over her shoulder at them and sped up, pushing Ron and Hermione towards the front doors. Sirius didn’t notice.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I can’t say even if I did. I had to swear an oath.”

Sirius sighed. “Harry,” he said, and the strange tone of his voice sounded a lot like disappointment. “Harry, I know I told you honour is important, but I also told you that you could get your way out of anything if you did it the right way. Tell me you haven’t done something irreparable.”

Harry scowled at him. “What do you take me for?” he said. “I was scared.”

“Just tell me,” Sirius said.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” he said. “And I had to do an Unbreakable Vow.”

“You’re having me on,” Sirius said faintly.

Harry shook his head. “No.” That was the least of his worries right now, though. He was thinking about Dumbledore, who he had not seen since the Leaving Feast at the end of sixth-year, and who had ignored his request to talk. It was like fifth year all over again.

He wished that Sirius would pay more attention to things like that, but he couldn’t force him to do it, so he was just going to have to pay attention to those things himself. They made it to the antechamber in the house, and Hermione tossed floor powder in the flames. She stepped through, then Ron, and then Ginny. Then it was just the two of them, and everything was still moving too quickly for Harry.

He was about to see Dumbledore. He was about to see everyone in the Order—people who had all thought his father was dead until Molly Weasley had spread around the news that he wasn’t—people who had not known that Sirius was his father until the article came out in the paper—people who were going to want answers for all of that. And those answers were going to detract from his time questioning Dumbledore—and possibly Snape—on what game he was playing. He breathed in deeply and it seemed like it took ten years to breathe out again.

“I love you, Kiddo,” Sirius said suddenly. “And I just want you to know that I’m proud of you, whatever you do. I’ll always be here for you.” And then he stepped through the flames and Harry was left staring at an empty space in the fireplace that didn’t match the full feeling that he got in his chest at hearing those words at all.

“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he said. He tossed the floo powder into the grate and stepped away from his newfound safe place, and back into the war.

ɤɣɤ

When he stepped out of the floo at Order Headquarters, every eye was on Sirius. Tonks was there with violet hair, and she was looking at both of them with bright, happy eyes. Sturgis Podmore, Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle and Emmaline Vance—who had never made much of an effort to get to know either of them—all gave them huge smiles, and Mad-Eye Moody scanned Sirius with a frown.

“It’s him alright,” Moody declared, and the tension in the room seemed to melt away. Sirius gave everyone a confident smile. Harry stepped up to his father just as Mrs Weasley bustled in from upstairs and smothered him in a hug.

If Moody could tell that Sirius wasn’t a Polyjuiced impostor just by looking at him with his magic eye, Harry thought, then how did he not know before? Someone had obviously been impersonating Sirius for at least a few months.

Maybe these people were far too trusting.

Why weren’t they questioning this? And, as far as that went, why didn’t he question it more when Sirius showed up at Privet Drive? And where was Dumbledore? Or Snape? Mr Weasley came in then, followed by the rest of the Weasleys except Percy, and clapped him on the back.

“Good to see you again, Harry,” he said. “And you too Sirius. Glad to have you back.”

“From the dead, you mean?” Sirius asked with a wry smile. There was an awkward tittering of laughter throughout the room, and then the fire flared up again and saved the moment. Dumbledore stepped out, looked around the room, and gave a content nod.

“Good evening,” he said. His eyes lingered on Harry a bit longer than everyone else as he scanned the crowd. “Severus will be along shortly. Shall we move to the kitchen for the meeting?”

Everyone followed him immediately, but Ginny was caught by Mrs Weasley as she tried to follow. “I don’t think so, young lady,” Mrs Weasley said. Ginny gave her an incredulous look, as did Harry, Ron and Hermione. Were the three of them actually about to be allowed into the meeting? They exchanged cautious glances among themselves and slunk towards the stairs leading to the kitchen, leaving Ginny to herself. Mrs Weasley did not stop them.

“Why can’t I go, too?” Ginny asked.

Harry lingered at the door only long enough to hear Mrs Weasley say, “Because you’re not of age,” before he slipped downstairs. His father was directly in front of him and gave him a confused look over his shoulder.

“I meant what I said,” he reminded Harry.

Harry gave him a small grin as they entered the kitchen. “You too,” he replied. “Erm—I mean, I do, too.” It was hard to say, he realised only when he tried. They were words he’d never said before in his life. He thought he might have to work up to them. It seemed to be enough for his father though because he grinned wolfishly over his shoulder and led Harry to a chair without another word. Ron and Hermione sat on his other side with anxious, expectant looks on their faces.

“What are they doing here?” a man Harry didn’t recognise asked Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who had sat himself at the head of the kitchen table, smiled at the group at large.

“They are here for the meeting, of course,” Dumbledore said. Ron grinned, but Harry and Hermione didn’t. He exchanged a cautious glance with his father.

“They aren’t members,” Emmaline Vance said.

“They will be,” Dumbledore said. Ron had begun bouncing in his seat, and Mrs Weasley was frowning. She, apparently, did not approve of her son joining the Order of the Phoenix. Mr Weasley, though, patted her comfortingly on the shoulder and smiled at them. The twins, Harry realised, weren’t present either. He’d thought that Percy and Ginny were the only Weasleys not invited, but he had forgotten the twins.

“Now,” Dumbledore continued, looking at the three of them, “You will be admitted to the Order of the Phoenix tonight, but first you must agree to several things.” Hermione nodded warily; Ron looked too stunned now to do much of anything. Harry had a bad feeling about this. Why was Dumbledore inducting them into the Order now? What was he playing at?

Dumbledore smiled. Very few others did; they seemed to be of the same mind as Mrs Weasley. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt had a thoughtful frown on his face, as he looked back and forth between them and Professor Dumbledore.

The agreements the three of them had to make to join the Order were lacking, Harry thought. There were no Unbreakable Vows that would kill him or destroy his magical ability if he revealed any secrets. There was only a magical contract, akin to the one Hermione create for the DA, and it was just asking for betrayal. The three of them were asked—politely—to promise that they would not reveal the secrets of the Order to any non-Order member and sign their names. Dumbledore would not reveal the punishment, but he did say it was neither death nor magic removal.

Harry blinked, signed his name, and remembered all the times he’d lied before. Surely he wasn’t the only person who’d lied to get himself out of trouble before—it seemed to him as if there should have at least been a babbling hex placed on them so if they accidentally started to speak of anything, it would come out as nonsense.

“There is also the small matter of the babbling hex,” Dumbledore added after rolling the parchment back up.

Harry glanced at his father, frowning.

“It is somewhat different from your typical babbling hex, in that it will not only make any secrets you attempt to tell sound like nonsense, but it will also turn you into a babbling, slobbering idiot, and transport you directly to the St Mungo’s Spell Damage Ward,” Dumbledore said then and clapped his hands together. “Now…”

Well, Harry thought, that was a relief at least.

“What I would like to know,” Emmaline said, “is who in Merlin’s name fell through that frightful Veil at the Ministry if Sirius Black is sitting right in front of us. It should have been destroyed years ago, Albus. This isn’t the first time we’ve lost a wizard to it.”

“That’s a very good question,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the rest.

“Is it even him?” Mundungus asked. “Are ye sure it’s him?”

“It’s him,” Moody growled. His magic eye swirled around and focused on Sirius. “I’m sure of it.”

“Then someone else was certainly fighting with the others in the Department of Mysteries, and we have been infiltrated,” Sturgis said. “Wouldn’t you have noticed an impostor before?” He asked, looking to Moody.

Moody grunted. “I never saw him after he came back, did I? At least not until the night at the Ministry, and I’d wager that my attention was focused more on the actual Death Eaters than looking for nuances in a magical signature.”

Kingsley said, "What does the Veil actually _do_

_"But the point is," Harry cut in, seeing his chance to get some information out of Dumbledore, "that _someone_ fell through the Veil and didn't come out. And that someone was my _father_ or someone who certainly looked like him and was stubborn enough to leave Grimmauld Place when he wasn't supposed to, to come rescue me." _

"Wasn't me," Sirius said awkwardly.

"Yeah, but I doubt you would have left if Sirius hadn't shown up," Ron added helpfully.

Harry scowled. Maybe not, "But then that means someone wanted me to leave the Department of Mysteries immediately." He raised his eyebrows, trying to catch Dumbledore's eye. Dumbledore was conveniently looking at a dirty old oil painting hanging on the far wall. "Why would anyone have wanted me to leave?"

"To keep you safe, I'd expect," Ron said.

"Or to keep you from finding something there," Hermione said.

"I wasn't exactly using my time to study all the _mysteries_ ," Harry said flatly.

Kingsley cleared his throat. “Well, _someone_ was living here for three months,” he said. “I would think that that confirms what Sturgis said; our location has been compromised.” He cast a speculative glance around the room, but Snape was still not there, so he turned back to Dumbledore. “Is that possible?”

“I assure you, Kingsley,” Dumbledore said, “that as Secret Keeper, I am the only one who can betray the location of our headquarters, and I have not.” That seemed to placate almost everyone. Not Harry, though; he was beginning to feel like his skin was crawling. Something was not right here, and no one had any answers, not even Dumbledore.

“So where was Black then,” Sturgis Podmore asked, “if not at the Ministry?”

“He has been on a mission since January of 1996,” Dumbledore said, “as you well know.” Podmore scowled and looked away.

“Then who was here?” Emmaline asked. “We still don’t know, do we, Dumbledore?”

“No, I do not yet know,” Dumbledore agreed. “My current theory involves Kreature somehow finding a loophole in his house-elf magic that allowed him to let in another person, but he furiously denies anything of the sort, and I am left to wonder why an imposter would attempt—so it seemed—to rescue Harry.”

It was at that moment that Snape came in, black robes flowing behind him in a way that surely required a spell, and scowled at the room at large. He took the last seat, which was between Sirius and Emmaline Vance, and sneered.

“Welcome, Severus,” Dumbledore said. Snape only stared at him. Fortunately, he also ignored Harry’s father, and Sirius, in turn, ignored Snape.

“Severus has just come from Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said. “He has been working on a potion to counteract the effects of a startling new piece of information. Severus?” Dumbledore said.

“The Dark Lord has received the information from an unnamed source,” he said. “The Dementors will begin breeding within a year.”

There was a chorus of horrified gasps all around the table and Harry glanced at Snape. Voldemort had not been the one to relay that information, he knew. _He_ had been Voldemort that night; _of course_ he knew. It had been a man named Edward Yaxley. Harry wondered why Snape had altered that bit of information. Did the Order not know that Yaxley was a Death Eater? He had been the first ever, Voldemort told him; surely someone would have known about him by now?

“Why, exactly, is that a problem?” Tonks asked. Her small mouth was pursed in confusion.

Hermione, surprisingly, was the one to answer. “Dementors only breed once every five-hundred years or so. The actual time is based on a strict pattern that can be discerned using a complex Arithmantic formula and study of the past century’s moon cycles. Before breeding, the Dementors go on a feeding frenzy of indiscriminate Kissing of wizards and muggles alike for one full moon cycle. They use the souls to build their strength so that they can reproduce, in a way similar to osmosis.”

“Oh, my,” Emmaline said. “What can be done about that?”

“Nothing,” Snape said. “They will breed without fail.”

“Then what are you doing about it, Snape?” Moody growled.

Snape redirected his malevolent gaze at the gnarled old Auror. “I am attempting to create a potion that will mask the ‘feel’ of souls. As you know,” he said, “Dementors are blind. They sense souls by feeling them, much like a bat senses an approaching obstacle. With luck, I will be able to create a potion that will prevent the imbiber’s sould from being broadcasted to nearby Dementors, thus making them invisible to the beasts and allowing a safe escape.”

“But we can’t give those potions to every single wizard and muggle in the world!” Hestia Jones said, scribbling numbers furiously on a spare bit of parchment. She looked up from it and added, “the cost would be astronomical. How long would the effect last?”

“It is still in the experimental stage at this point, Hestia,” said Snape, and left it at that.

“These are just our first attempts at a solution, Hestia,” Dumbledore added. “We only received this information in the wee hours of this morning.”

“I do wonder,” Kingsley said, “Why no one from the Ministry found this first.”

“We have people on that, don’t we?” asked Tonks.

“We should...” Kingsley said, but he didn’t sound very sure.

Emmaline Vance scoffed. “I doubt very seriously that any real money has been invested in research at the Ministry in generations,” she said. “Elphias told me just the other day that the budget for next year was woefully inadequate in funding anything useful, such as pre- or post-Hogwarts education, much less experimental research.”

Harry didn’t find that hard to believe.

Sirius shifted next to him, and Harry looked up to see his father’s face, only a bit paler, looking back at him. He looked away quickly and Harry did, too. He didn’t want to seem like he had anything to hide—especially since he did.

“Do not lose hope just yet,” Dumbledore said. “Not everyone will need the potion. Minerva has suggested that we gather the Dementors prior to the feeding and cage them for one month. After that month, the urge to feed should be returned to its normal intensity.”

Judging from Snape’s disbelieving face, neither he nor Harry thought that would work at all. But no one else seemed to be looking at Snape except for Sirius. His father had a thoughtful look on his face now, and it was less pale than before. That had to be a good sign. He turned to his other side and looked at Ron.

Ron was grimacing in either fear or disgust and clenching his fingers in his robes. On his other side, Hermione was making notes, but she looked a little scared, too.

“Why don’t we just tell the Ministry?” Tonks asked. “We have loads of Aurors—surely this is something that we should leave to the Ministry, at least at first?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Tonks,” he said. “Minister Fudge will only question where the information came from.”

“I see,” said Kingsley. “That still leaves the curious state of the Ministry’s researchers undefined. I’d like to look into that further, if you don’t mind, Dumbledore.”

“As you wish, Kingsley,” Dumbledore said with a nod. “It is certainly a matter of great importance for our future, at the very least. Perhaps with a few nudges in the right place, we will be able to encourage the Ministry to discover the problem for itself, and assistance would surely be welcome.”

“Did you learn anything else from You-Know-Who’s meeting?” Mr Weasley asked.

Snape shook his head. “No, and I am still uncertain as to the Dark Lord’s location. He blocks the true name and apparation coordinates from us when we are called.”

What Snape didn’t say, Harry thought, was that Lucius Malfoy was out of Azkaban, a Death Eater was going to be the Defence teacher and Draco Malfoy was planning to become one as well. Snape caught his eye, and Harry understood: Snape really was a thrice-turned traitor. And judging by the sharp stare he gave Harry, Snape thought the same of him. Harry scowled and looked away.

The rest of the Order was muttering amongst themselves again, and his father cleared his throat. “I’ve been trying to write to Remus ever since I got back,” Sirius said to Dumbledore. “From everyone else’s reaction, I’d imagine he thinks me dead—and if it’s all the same to you, Albus, I’d like to let him know that I’m not. Do you know why he’s not responding?”

“Most unusual,” Dumbledore said. He had a slight frown on his face. Sirius waited, as did Harry, Ron and Hermione, but Dumbledore didn’t say anything else. “He is on a mission to gather werewolves in France. I daresay that he is at a location warded against unknown owls. He is scheduled to check in with Hestia later this month, so we will wait and see.”

His eyes focused on the three students, and Dumbledore smiled. “Also, we will be receiving two additional students this year,” he said. “They come from a very dark family, but their parents have been in Azkaban nearly their whole lives, and as such, have been of no influence. They were raised by their grandmother in France, and will be transferring to Hogwarts for their sixth year. It would please me if the three of you would make an effort not to alienate them, as I suspect they would be excellent additions to the Order once they are older.”

“Who are they?” Hermione asked. Harry already knew who Dumbledore was referring to, and he didn’t think Hermione or Ron would like it. He didn’t either, but he had to—according to this honour thing his father rambled on about—give them the benefit of the doubt, even if he knew they would be Death Eaters as soon as they left school.

Dumbledore gave them a piercing look. “Alsace and Lorraine Lestrange.”

“Bellatrix’s children?” Ron asked. “You’re not really letting people like that in Hogwarts are you?”

“Ronald!” Mrs Weasley said. “Watch your tongue!”

“They could be perfectly nice,” Harry said, hoping to diffuse it.

Snape glanced at him sharply and Harry ignored him. Under the table, Sirius clenched his hand, and Harry knew that his father had figured it out: he already knew everything that was being said here tonight. None of this was new to him.

“We’ll try,” Hermione said. “Won’t we?” She gave the two of them a look. The Lestrange sisters were likely to become Hermione’s next SPEW project at this rate.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said. “Now I have just one more thing to bring up before we adjourn.” He turned to face Harry and Harry immediately focused his eyes on Dumbledore’s nose. He was still no good at Occlumency. It wasn’t worth risking it. Snape stiffened, too. Perhaps he was worried about the same thing.

“Are you still free of Voldemort’s visions, Harry? Last year you did not have any, unless I am mistaken,” he said.

“No sir,” he said, but he felt overwhelming guilt at saying it, even though it was mostly true. He wasn’t having _visions_ ; he was having _visits_.

Dumbledore seemed please. “Wonderful. Just as I expected.”

“Sir?” Harry asked.

“You see, when Voldemort possessed you in your fifth year, I believe that the link between you was severed. As it has been over a year since that happened, and you’ve not had another vision, I believe that it is safe to assumed that’s true.”

Harry looked away. The link was definitely not severed.

Dumbledore said a few inconsequential things and then dismissed the meeting. Everyone flooed out, Dumbledore first, and soon it was only Harry, Sirius and Snape. Ron and Hermione had followed the Weasleys out to collect Ginny.

Snape looked at him, and his father didn’t provoke Snape at all, which Harry thought was rather good form of him. Deliberately, Snape shut the door and charmed it with no less than a dozen spells—only three of which Harry recognised.

“Is he trustworthy?” Snape asked, nodding to Sirius. Sirius growled, but Harry put his hand on his father’s forearm to restrain him.

“Obviously,” he said. “He’s my dad. Sir.”

Snape’s sneer had a strange quality to it that Harry didn’t want to contemplate. “Do not mistake me, Potter,” he said, deliberately using the name. “I am asking you if he is trustworthy, and not in the same sense that you or I am.” That, Harry thought, was a low blow.

“What do you mean?” Sirius said. “What’s that supposed to mean? Harry’s trustworthy, of course he is!”

Harry looked away. Snape stepped closer so that he and Sirius were nearly nose to nose, and repeated Sirius’ words: “Of course he is, Black.”

It sounded mocking even to Harry, who was well versed in Snape’s sarcasms “He is,” Harry insisted, catching Snape’s eye. Snape studied him carefully and then stepped back.

“Very well.” He looked once more at Sirius and then redirected his sharp gaze to Harry. “What game are you playing, Potter?”

“I’m not a Potter,” Harry said. This was the second time Snape had called him that that night, and he wasn’t going to play into the potion master’s hands any longer. Sirius smiled smugly. “I’m a Black.”

“Of course,” Snape drawled. “And your game?” he prompted again. “What is it?”

“I’m not playing a game,” Harry insisted.

“What are you talking about Snivelly?” Sirius said. They both ignored him.

“You are playing with fire,” Snape said.

“And you’re not?” Harry asked. To his surprise, Snape smirked. He seemed quite pleased with himself, which Harry really wouldn’t doubt if he thought about it. “You’re the worst kind of traitor,” Harry said. “You’re playing both sides.”

He didn’t think it was necessary to keep the charade up in front of his father any longer—Sirius had said he would back him no matter what. He hoped that included political decisions.

“Am I?” Snape asked curiously.

Harry scowled. “I don’t know why Voldemort doesn’t kill you,” he said. “If I were him, I’d kill you,” he added viciously.

Snape laughed. “Would you now? How very enlightening. Perhaps if you were the Dark Lord, you would give me reason to stay loyal instead of amusing yourself with my games.” It was meant to be mocking, but Harry responded anyway.

“No—I’d kill you straight off Snape. You’d get one chance with me, and if you blew it, I’d kill you. Don’t you have any honour at all?”

“Not anymore,” Snape said. He glanced sideways at Sirius, and to Harry’s surprise, his father seemed to understand. His cheeks reddened in anger.

“I told you I’d win,” said Sirius.

“And so you did,” Snape said tightly.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. What was going on here? Snape wasn’t goading him at all. Snape was agreeing with him, which was altogether different. Snape turned back to Harry. “What is your plan, Potter? Or do you not have one, as usual?”

“You do want me to, don’t you?” Harry said.

Snape merely stared at him. “I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

Harry shook his head. “No—you do. You want me to do it.”

“Do I?” Snape asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. Snape’s face was perfectly blank, but Harry thought he saw something in his eyes. “You do.” He paused, and then, “Why?”

“Why not?” Snape replied. Harry narrowed his eyes—couldn’t Snape answer him without asking another question?

“I...” Harry said. “I don’t know. It feels like it would be safer to do it,” he admitted. “I think more people would be saved if I could talk Voldemort out of some of his attacks.”

“Exactly,” Snape said, and then pulled out his wand. He slashed it once across the door and all of the privacy spells disintegrated. He wrenched the door open, and with one last, piercing look over his shoulder, exited the room. In his absence, everything was deathly quiet.

“What was that about?” Sirius hissed, turning to him. “He wasn’t talking about what I think he was talking about, was he?” Harry nodded, and Sirius took a deep breath. “Harry—I,” he paused and then shook his head. “I think you’re about to make a mistake.”

Harry looked at him sharply. “Like you almost made a mistake, yeah?”

Sirius looked sheepish, but said nothing.

“I’d never be a Death Eater,” Harry said fervently. “Never—but you can’t tell me you still trust Dumbledore completely, can you? He hasn’t got a plan at all! And if _he_ does want me to be his heir, then that means I’d have some sort of power right? Power to convince him otherwise, at least? That means I could help people—I could end this war without bloodshed.” Harry blinked. He hadn’t meant to say any of that—he hadn’t even known that he thought any of that.

“Perhaps,” Sirius said. His voice was quiet in wake of Snape removing the privacy spells. “But perhaps, you could be signing your own death warrant.”

Harry scoffed. “Do you think?” he said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “When has my life not been a gamble? What difference is this?”

Sirius shook his head slowly. “I’m not saying that this is a bad idea—because if anyone can pull it off, I think it’d be you, but I just don’t think you understand everything you’re getting yourself into.”

“Then explain it to me,” Harry said wearily. “Because I’ve had the Dark Lord in my head for two years now, and I rather like the idea of him not trying to kill me.”

His father gave him a wan smile. “I can’t; I don’t know it all myself.”

There was a tentative knock at the open door and they both spun around to face the intruder. Hermione stood there with her fist still poised above the wood, and looked at them with her mouth slightly open. “I—I was just going to say,” she cleared her throat, “that Ron’s collected Ginny and we’re ready to go. The rest of the Weasleys have gone home now.”

Harry, whose heart rate had begun to steadily increase ever since he’d heard the knock, stared at Hermione in horror. Sirius, likewise, was looking like a cornered rabbit with wide eyes and tightly pursed lips.

“How much did you hear?” Harry asked.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Not much,” she said, looking at him, “but you’ve just incriminated yourself by asking that. So you have been having visions,” she said. “I don’t know why you didn’t tell the Headmaster, Harry, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now.”

With that, she gave each of them a sharp look and spun around, stamping up the stairs. Harry exchanged a glance with Sirius and they hurried to follow her. She had the wrong idea, and thank Merlin for it.

Ron, Ginny and Hermione were waiting by the floo in the parlour that they arrived in, but Hermione was pointedly not looking at Harry. He suppressed a wince at his mistake—he shouldn’t have assumed that she’d heard anything, but it was just too coincidental for his tastes. Ron sent him a grin while Ginny sulked and begged them for information. Harry only shook his head and followed them into the floo. He needed to be more careful.

ɤɣɤ

  


>   
>  _  
> Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 733rd page._
> 
> _1 October, 850_
> 
> _S,_
> 
> _Sam is five now, as I may or may not have mentioned in my previous letters. I apologise for my negligence—I have been so engrossed in my research that I admit I have neglected him as well. The Nag badgered me into obtaining for him a practise wand last week and I did so. His wild magic is gorgeous, Beloved. I was reading a picture book to him—you know the ones that were in your rooms: the dark creature book, specifically—and when we came to the runespoor page, he squealed in delight and conjured one!_
> 
> _It was beautiful, Beloved. Of course, the book was not coloured, and Sam’s turned out to be black with white stripes instead of orange with black stripes, but it was good—it was very good. I was proud of him, and reminded of you—who was always so good with Transfigurations._
> 
> _But I am avoiding something, as you would know if you were here. You were always so good at reading me—as good as I was at reading anything else. I have been avoiding and rambling and digressing and you must be so very tired of my platitudes._
> 
> _I am a horrible mother._
> 
> _Sam is five and I have forgotten to even write you on his birthday. It was on the eleventh of June—I wrote you that day, I see now that I look back through the pages, but I did not tell you about it. Sam was unaware that it was his birthday until Leo gave him a practise foil—I think he’s too young for it, but who am I to say? With as much attention as I have given him?_
> 
> _I cannot make a coherent thought right now, Beloved. I have so many things I want to say, and nothing is coming out the right way. But—I forgot him today. I left him outside playing while I went to get a cup of tea, and I was distracted with my research—I hadn’t meant to start it at all—but I was, and I left him outside for hours, and by the time I remembered him, it was after dark and nearly supper time._
> 
> _He was in the lake! He was swimming and he could have drowned, and I wonder—how long had he been in the water? How long could he have been dead before I’d remembered him?_
> 
> _And where would I be then? I would have nothing of you! I would have nothing left, and I’m quite sure that I would go mad—I would go mad without pause if that were to happen—if I had nothing left of you but your skin which doesn’t even feel like you anymore, bound as it is around this book. It feels metallic and fake and smooth and forged where it should feel soft and pliant and slick with perspiration. It is cold like I’ve cast a freezing charm on it, and yours was always hot even in the winter._
> 
> _I need to be more careful._
> 
> _I am losing my nerve, I know it. I’m near to snapping, and if this doesn’t work on All Hallows’ Eve, I will go mad I’m sure it—and then where will Sam be? Who will care for him? But I know it will be Leo and the Nag—and they will take good care of him—perhaps better care than I have—but he won’t have a mother, and if I am not around, I am not around to bring you around and he will not have a father, either._
> 
> _I must be more careful._
> 
> _R._

ɤɣɤ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The restaurant Harry is referring to at the beginning of the chapter is called Dick’s Last Resort. I don’t know if they have those in the U.K., but they’re notorious over here. I know they have them in at least Chicago and Dallas, and I think there’s one somewhere here in Atlanta, but I’ve never been to it before if there is. It’s more of a novelty thing—like Hard Rock Café.


	14. Blackness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revised 05/30/11.
> 
> This chapter has graphic masturbation in it, which makes this chapter NC-17. Please be aware of and abide by the relevant laws in your country regarding age. Also, there's house-elf birth, which I would say is one of my squicks, and probably everyone else's, but it isn’t graphic, so hopefully it won’t gross you out. This is the last chapter of part one.

  


No one but Harry noticed it, but as soon as they stepped out of the floo back at River House, Ron slunk off to lurk near the drawing room liquor cabinet until everyone else went to sleep. Hermione and Ginny, who both wanted to be up early in the morning since they were going to be catching the train back to Hogwarts, went off to bed, and Harry and Sirius ruined Ron’s plans.

Sirius was in the mood for a drink himself, and Harry wanted to talk to his grandparents one last time, so they both retreated to the drawing room as well. Fortunately, Ron had had the foresight to stay out of the way while Sirius was there. He’d not noticed the emptying liquor cabinet over the last fortnight; he wasn’t a big drinker either, apparently, which Harry thought was probably a good thing. With their tempers, it could potentially be very bad if either of them got drunk regularly. Harry would have thought the same of Ron, but so far, he only got maudlin.

“Have you been drinking?” Sirius asked. Harry was sprawled across the divan facing the fireplace. Harry looked up at him and rolled his eyes. Sirius didn’t see it; his back was turned the other way.

“No,” Harry said. “Well—I had a firewhiskey not long ago.”

“Hmm,” Sirius said. “It’s the brandy that’s missing. Maybe I’ve been drinking more than I thought. No—I bet it was Ginger,” he said. “She probably doesn’t approve of the cheap brandy.”

“Probably not,” Harry said—which could have been true. But regardless of whether or not the house-elf approved of the brandy, she had not cleared out the liquor cabinet. That was Ron, but Harry wasn’t going to say that unless he was asked a direct question about it.

His father hummed noncommittally, pulling the firewhiskey from the cabinet. He frowned. It was obvious that he would much rather have a brandy.

“Are you going back to Hogwarts tomorrow, m’boy?” Grandfather Frank asked. He was in his frame now and not off with Arcturus Black on the third floor. The two of them had become fast friends, but they probably spent most of their time conspiring against various ministries. “Tomorrow’s the first, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, smiling. “I’ll be a seventh year.”

“You’ll keep up with your studies, won’t you, Harry?” Grandmum Laurel asked. “Lily was always very good with her studies.”

Frank smiled at his wife. “Yes, Lily was always very smart—demolished me in Scrabble every time we played. A shame she doesn’t have a portrait; I’m sure she’d enjoy joining Arcturus and me for our discussions on potion theory.” Laurel frowned at that. Apparently, she did not approve of her daughter, portrait or not, hanging around smoking men.

“What’s Scrabble?” Harry’s father asked from the chair opposite him. He was blowing on a goblet of smoking firewhiskey. Frank went off on a detailed, heavily hand-gestured, explanation of the muggle game and Laurel turned to Harry.

“I’m very proud of you, Harry,” she said. “You look so much like Lily.” She smirked very faintly and added, “It’s a pity that you look like that one as well,” she jerked her head towards Sirius. “But I suppose out of the three of them, he was certainly the best looking.”

Harry sat forward quickly. “You knew the others?” he asked. Neither of the Evanses knew that Lily had ended up marrying James Potter, and neither of them knew that Harry had actually thought himself a Potter until recently. They did not know the full story of what happened on Halloween 1981, but from the bits and pieces of conversation they had picked up from Harry talking to his father in the drawing room, they did know that Voldemort had killed Lily and that Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban for it.

When Harry had told them this part, Laurel had made a tragic, devastated face. Even portraits felt grief; to Harry’s astonishment, Frank had even teared up, but made a valiant attempt at smiling. ‘Always knew the girl had too much resourcefulness for her own good,’ he said, dabbing his eyes. Harry did not pretend to understand that. Frank had been reluctant to explain further.

They assumed, Laurel had told him, that Harry had thought Sirius was his father all along but had not known him until recently. They assumed that he’d lived with relatives—but not that those relatives had been their older daughter, Petunia, and her family. For some reason, they were both disinclined to speak of Petunia, and every time Harry brought her up, Laurel would frown and Frank would have a prior invitation to have a cigar with Arcturus.

“Of course I knew them,” Laurel said. “She brought them around enough, didn’t she?” Harry shrugged; he had no idea. “Well, she did,” his grandmother said. “That James boy—I never liked him; he spent too much time around Petunia, halving his time between teasing her and flirting with her.”

“What?” Harry said. This was the first time either of his grandparents had willingly brought up his Aunt Petunia. Of course, Laurel was frowning mightily as she spoke, but that could have been because of anything. “He did?”

Laurel waved a delicate hand across the canvas. “He wasn’t the only one, and he wasn’t serious about it. He wasn’t interested in her—it wasn’t playground pixie-tail pulling; it was…teasing. I think he got a laugh out of making her think he liked her. She didn’t have magic any—well, that’s not important,” Laurel scowled. It was the first time Harry had every seen her make such a facial expression. “The other one,” she continued, “The shy one.” She looked to Harry for assistance.

“Remus Lupin,” he supplied.

“No,” his grandmother said. “Not him. He came around sometimes, too, but he wasn’t one of the ones Lily had an eye for.”

Harry shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. It was always startling to hear his mother had other friends and boyfriends he didn’t know about.

“I wouldn’t have trusted either of them to take care of Lily properly, but that one,” she nodded at Sirius again, “was a decent mix. He was a troublesome little brat, but always polite to the family. Good upbringing, I would think—not sheltered or mollycoddled too much. Decent head on his shoulders if he would’ve ever used it.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he would agree with that. He looked over at his father, who was leaning forward and listening intently to the rules of Monopoly, and frowned. After seeing Snape’s pensieve, he didn’t think that his father would have been kind to Petunia at all—but then again, he did have a certain empathy for muggles. Maybe he left her alone because he felt sorry for her for being a squib?

“Did my mother ever talk about any of them?” he asked. He wanted to know more about the James Potter situation, but he didn’t feel comfortable bringing it up directly. His father had said that she dated him from fifth through seventh year, even though James had always chased her, but he wanted to know what had happened after Dumbledore sent Sirius on that eight month mission.

She had apparently dated James during that time, and then married him. He knew that the Evanses had been assassinated two years before he was born and a year before Lily married James, but…

“Not as such,” Laurel said, shaking her head. “I always assumed that she was seeing that one, but she never mentioned it. She was always a very private girl—kept almost everything to herself.”

“Oh,” Harry said, disappointed. “Well, what about—" he stopped.

“Master Black! Master Black!” Fred came bounding in, panting slightly, and Harry wondered what had frightened him enough to forget that he could just pop in anywhere he wanted. He was on his feet in an instant, wand out, and his father was too.

“What is it?” Harry asked quickly.

Fred looked at him, horrified. “Little Master! Ginger is—Ginger is saying, oh Fred is in so much trouble—Ginger is…”

“Is what?” Sirius asked in alarm.

“Little elf,” Fred panted. “Little elf is coming…now,” he whimpered, and then his huge protuberant eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted. Harry exchanged a glance with his father.

“What do we do?” he asked. His father looked back at him and shrugged.

“I suppose we should go…help?” he suggested.

Harry grimaced, but followed Sirius up the stairs to the house-elves’ quarters. They had chosen for themselves the smallest broom cupboard in the servants’ quarters. It was the last one at the end of the hall, and as they walked towards it, their steps slowed unconsciously.

“Do we really have to?” Harry asked. Sirius gave him a helpless look and knocked on the door.

“Ginger will kill you,” came the high-pitched, squealing response, “if you is to be opening that door! Ginger will _kill_ you!”

“Good enough for me,” Harry said, pivoting around to head back downstairs. A hand caught him on his shoulder and pulled him back.

“I don’t think so,” Sirius said. “If I have to do this, you’re doing it, too.” Harry whimpered and followed him in the room. Ginger was lying on the little children’s bed that they had purchased for the house-elves in Eweforic Alley, and her huge eyes were gleaming maliciously in the dark.

“Ginger is going to be killing you, Master Black and Little Master, and then Ginger is going to have to iron her hands,” she said ferociously. “Ginger is already going to be killing Fred—and Ginger won’t have to punish herself for that.” She panted some more and let out a squeaky scream.

Harry’s father made a gagging motion at nothing in particular, stuck out his tongue in disgust and knelt down next to the bed. Harry followed him warily. “Fred’s very worried,” he said hesitantly.

Ginger snarled. “If Fred is very worried about Ginger, Fred should be with Ginger now!”

Sirius winced. “Well, you see, it’s like this, Ginger,” he said. He paused, as if preparing himself to say something dreadful, and then, “Fred’s fainted.”

“Ginger is not surprised,” she panted.

Sirius gave Harry a ‘what do I do?’ sort of look, and Harry looked back at him incredulously. Sirius was the one who wanted to help; shouldn’t he be the one to make the plans? Ginger screamed again and Harry gagged. He did _not_ want to see this.

“Ginger is to be killing Fred!” Ginger said. “Fred is a bad, bad, wicked elf!” Harry would have agreed with anything she said right then to keep her from killing _him_ , but he said nothing. He didn’t think he _could._ Fortunately, however, it didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, he and his father were staring at a small, ugly little creature with eyes half as big as its head.

“Fred is a good elf,” Ginger said fondly, looking down at the ugly creature. “Ginger likes him. Ginger will give him a boy elf,” she decided with a nod. Ginger waved her hand over the little house-elf, apparently making it a boy, and then sat back, very smug with herself.

Sirius, who was very pale and looked to be only moments from sicking up, closed his eyes in relief. Harry knew where he was coming from; he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have another Ginger running around. “What are you going to name him?” Sirius asked.

Ginger deliberated for several long minutes. “Ginger will name him Morty,” she decided. “Ginger liked Mr Voldymort’s persistence. Persistence is good for a house-elf.”

Harry struggled with a sudden coughing fit.

ɤɣɤ

Harry took a shower as soon as he was back in his rooms. Nothing had got on him, but he’d just seen something truly gruesome, and he wanted to get the foul feeling off of him. He was very thankful that he was returning to Hogwarts in the morning.

Afterwards, he lay in his bed, trying to go to sleep, and couldn’t. He was restless for so many reasons, but he just couldn’t get to sleep. After twenty minutes of trying, he sighed, got up, and walked over to his wardrobe. In the very back was a box full of floo disks that he’d received on his birthday.

Smirking, Harry withdrew _Queer Quidditch: Boys Who Love Brooms_ and tossed it into the fireplace. He’d watched several of the disks, but he’d been saving this one; what could be better than boys _and_ Quidditch. There was another Quidditch-themed disk, but it was called _Queens of Quidditch: Catching the Snatch_ , and he didn’t think he would like that one as much. He cast _Incendio_ to light the fire and flopped back on his bed, grinning to himself as the tacky opening theme music started up, sounding uncannily akin to the music on one of Celestina Warbeck’s songs.

His fireplace was old, and the flames distorted the picture some, but it was still good. He ran his fingers through his wet hair as two Quidditch players, sweaty from practice, entered a locker room and started undressing. It was very ‘boarding-schoolish,’ he thought. The boys kept looking at each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Only five minutes in, things were starting to heat up; Harry pulled off his over robes and tossed them on the floor. He was feeling rather hot himself. When one of the Quidditch players bent over in only his pants to unlace his Quidditch cleats, he moaned.

Harry sat up to pull his shirt over his head and ran his hands over his chest. His fingers left tingling little trails of heat over his skin, and he moaned again as the Quidditch player who’d bent over finally pulled off his trousers; he had a perfect arse, and there was a definite bulge forming in Harry’s pants.

He pressed his palm into it and let out a breathy moan. With one hand still running up and down his chest, Harry used the other to rub his erection, watching avidly as the other Quidditch player finally noticed the nakedness of the other. The first wandered over to the showers—which, Merlin above, did not have doors or curtains for privacy—and turned on the water.

It ran in tantalizing rivers over his skin and he tipped his head back, exposing his neck to the water. The second Quidditch player’s mouth dropped open, and he walked slowly over to the shower.

Harry flicked the button open on his jeans and unzipped his fly.

 _“Do you need help?”_ the second Quidditch player asked lustily. The first turned around sharply, exposing himself, and Harry’s eyes focused in on the boy’s thick cock—full and heavy with arousal. The other Quidditch player did too.

 _“What do you mean?”_ the first boy asked breathily. In response, the second slowly reached out and ran his fingers along the thick shaft. The Quidditch player gasped.

Harry pulled his erection out of his pants and squeezed it lightly. He gripped it tightly and pressed his thumb into the slit at the tip, moaning, and flicked his eyes back up to scene playing out in his fireplace.

The second Quidditch player had the first pressed against the shower tiles and was running his tongue thickly against the other’s neck as the first boy whimpered and groaned appreciatively. They scrambled to rip the second boy’s Quidditch robes off, and Harry stroked himself hard.

He was panting by now and his eyes were fastened on the two Quidditch players groping each other in the flames. His body was very hot underneath his fingers and his cock was purple and throbbing in his hand. He was very close to coming. Harry closed his eyes and _stroked_.  
The Quidditch boys wasted no time. One was bent over the locker room bench in a matter of moments, and the other pounded into him, using a lot of Quidditch jargon innuendos. Porn was still cheesy in the wizarding world, but Harry didn’t care. Their sweat-slicked bodies were all he needed, and it didn’t take long. Before he knew it, he was coming all over his stomach. He laid there for several long minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down. He could now make out the sounds of the floo porn starting over and replaying the opening scene

 _“Do you need help?”_ the Quidditch player asked.

Finally sleepy, Harry waved his wand at the hearth and put the fire out. He gave his stomach a cursory _Scourgify_ , rolled over, and was asleep in minutes. A knock at his door, unfortunately, woke him right back up.

 

Ginny came in hestitantly. “Another dream,” she said.

Harry lifted the blankets and gestured her forward. “Come on,” he said. “Did one of you die again in it?”

“No,” she said, sliding into the bed. “The other kind.”

“The, er, sexual kind,” Harry said. Ginny nodded.

Harry looked at her, fighting the urge to declare her mad and ship her off to St. Mungo’s. Ginny wasn’t mad—she couldn’t be; he would have known. She would have shown signs of madness before now. So what if she wanted to fuck the Dark Lord? Did that truly make her mad? Or did it only say she had terrible taste in men?

“Do you think,” Ginny continued, since Harry didn’t respond, “that he is so much older than me for a reason?” The question was asked casually, but it sparked something in Harry’s mind. There was no way—no way at all.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Well,” she said. “What if he’s so much older than me because I died before? Wouldn’t that explain why I have dreams of him when he’s thirty or forty years old?”

She had just echoed Harry’s own suspicion, but he needed more information. He still wasn’t ready to reveal his own secret to her. “What do _you_ look like in those dreams?” he asked.

“I don’t know, do I?” Ginny said, unconcerned. “I can’t very well see myself if I _am_ myself, can I?”

Harry hummed, considering.

“And it would explain why he’s mad, I think,” Ginny continued. She hadn’t noticed Harry’s sudden tension at all. “The book said one will go mad if the other is killed. Do you think I’ve died before?” she asked him. She was amused by the question, as if she didn’t really believe it herself, but frowned when she noticed the look on Harry’s face.

“What?” she asked curiously.

Harry stared at her. “Nothing,” he said. Surely Ginny wasn’t this Calixta Yaxley Voldemort spoke of? The thought was too disgusting to even contemplate. And even if she were, there was no use upsetting Ginny with the information; what would it solve? Nothing. “The more you tell me about it, the more I think it’s left over from being possessed. I’m sure it isn’t anything to worry about.”

Ginny frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right. I do hope these dreams go away soon,” she said. “I’ll have enough to worry about with NEWT level classes this year.”

“Believe me,” Harry said, rolling over and finally pulling the duvet up to his neck. The sweat on his body was starting to dry, and he was getting cold. “I know how you feel.”

He could hear Ginny settling in on the other side of him. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

Harry shrugged, though he wasn’t sure whether or not she’d be able to see it. “Sure,” he said.

“Who were you thinking about?” she asked.

“...What?” Harry asked.

“I know what you were doing in here earlier. That’s why I came back a few minutes later.”

Harry suspected that the other information was just too much for her to handle at the moment. She was trying to focus her attention on something _easier_ , but that was no reason to bring his wanking practises into the conversation. “What?” he said again.

“I mean,” she said, “You were never going to be interested in me again, were you?”

He was silent for a long moment. “No,” he finally said.

“Because you’re queer,” she said.

Harry rolled back over to face her. Her brown eyes were big and bright in the little light coming in through his window. “Yes,” he said, quietly. “Mostly.”

She nodded. “I figured,” she said. “Mum figured, too, but she wouldn’t say. She wanted us together so badly.”

“I know,” Harry said. Then, “I did, too, you know. I wanted a wife—you—and kids, perfect family, two corgis, you know, all that rot.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I tried.”

“I know,” she said. “I love Dean, now, anyway. It was all for the best.”

He smiled at her.

“And I’m sure,” she continued, “that Seamus will be pleased. He’s wanted in your pants for ages.” She slipped out of the bed, pulling her dressing gown tight around her again. “Night, Harry.”

“Night, Ginny,” he said. The door clicked shut behind her, and Harry slept.

ɤɣɤ

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Voldemort said. He was standing facing the window in the same study that Harry always found him in, but did not turn away. It seemed that he had been able to sense Harry’s presence without even looking.

“I didn’t expect to be here so soon,” Harry said.

Voldemort turned around—the same as always: the hood of his black cloak shadowing all of his face save for the gleaming red eyes—and stared at him.

“I have recently received the most delightful sensations from you.” Harry blushed, and knew that Voldemort was grinning. He could now make out the faint sheen of sharp white teeth. “You were thinking of me at that time? How delightful.”

Knowing that he needed to practise his Occlumency now if Voldemort could feel it when he wanked, Harry glared back. “I was not,” he said.

Voldemort did not offer him tea this time. Despite his mockery, he seemed to be preoccupied. Harry watched him silently, unsure of what to say, because in truth he had nothing to say. Not yet at least.

“Have you decided?” Voldemort asked.

Harry looked at him, and decided he wasn’t ready to answer yet. “Why should I?”

He got the sudden feeling that he was pushing his luck; Voldemort did not seem to be in the mood for bantering or conversation right now. Harry was unwelcome this night, and it was becoming steadily more obvious with each passing minute.

“That is your decision, Harry,” Voldemort snapped, and Harry barely refrained from flinching. “I am offering you this as a cease fire. We both know the prophecy, though I find it less exciting than I once did—prophecies always come to pass, but this one could easily be fulfilled in less-obvious ways. It does not tell me how to defeat you or even if I can, however, and I see no point in continuing with this nonsense. You have proven yourself to me if only because of your constant _luck_.

“ _Luck_ , I should add,” Voldemort said with a sneer, “that can be useful if one is out-numbered or out-manoeuvred.” He leaned forward suddenly, saying, “As I have said, it is your decision. I will not offer this again. You refuse, and the cease-fire ends—your opportunity to help shape the wizarding world… _ends_ —your peaceful life without fear of me… _ends_.

“And most certainly,” Voldemort added, standing up and sneering down at Harry, “civil conversations end. I will block you from my mind _so completely_ that you will never know that you have ever been there before. I will be immortal and you will die either from attempting to destroy me or from spending your life _wishing you had_ —because I will be unstoppable in my vengeance. You will never defeat me without my help, and you will never defeat me unless I wish to be defeated.

“And I will never wish to be defeated, if I am not certain that someone suitable is standing in my place. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Harry whispered.

“And your decision?”

Harry took a deep breath—thought about Ginny and how no one had died in the past year—how nice it had felt during sixth year to not have to worry about attacks. “I’ll do it,” he said. He hoped he was making the right decision.

“Fan _tas_ tic,” Voldemort snarled sarcastically. Harry opened his mouth to give a retort, but Voldemort slashed his arm forcefully and he was abruptly hurled back to his own mind in his own bed.

His dreams were suspiciously absent for the rest of the night.

ɤɣɤ

  


  


The next morning, Harry woke up early to finish packing. His head ached from anxiety over his decision, but he was set. He wasn’t going to change his mind now: he was determined. He could save the world. _He could change the world_.

And he would.

He tossed his invisibility cloak and the Marauder’s Map in his trunk on top of his new clothes and snapped it closed. Fred came then, looking haggard and horrified, to take his trunk down to the floo room just as Harry was heading to the en suite for a shower.

“Congratulations,” he called to Fred over his shoulder. Fred jumped, startled, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘Fred does not know why anyone would _congratulate_ Fred on such a day. Fred is certainly not feeling like congratulations are in order.’ Harry chuckled and turned on the water. He’d only showered last night, but he had also got sweaty before he went to sleep.

Sirius was making breakfast when he made it down to the kitchen since Ginger would still be resting up. Harry was the last one down, and he sat between Hermione and the empty chair his father always took. “Morning,” he said. Usually, he was very excited to go back to Hogwarts, but not this year.

He’d only known his father for a month, really, and a fortnight of that had been spent studiously ignoring each other. He was glad that he and his father could make up without having to hash everything out all over again, but he also wished he could spend more time with him now that they were talking again. He couldn’t help remembering the battle at the Department of Mysteries—he’d gone so long thinking Sirius dead, and now he was afraid something similar would happen…but this time…what if his father actually did die?

He couldn’t bear to think of it any longer.

“Good morning,” Hermione said brightly. Ron grunted something—looking hung-over and tired.

“Morning, Kiddo!” Sirius said. It sounded fake, and Harry’s mood brightened some. His father didn’t want him to go either. He was going to miss him. Harry smiled at his father. “Haven’t cooked in years,” he admitted as he brought plates over to the table. “Can’t guarantee it’ll be edible.”

Harry laughed. Ron didn’t seem to care; he dug in right away.

“Why are you cooking this morning then? Not that I’m complaining, of course,” said Hermione. “I still think house-elves are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

Sirius exchanged a glance with Harry. “Ginger had her baby last night,” he said. Hermione’s face lit up.

“Really?” she asked. “Oh—did you see it? I wish I could have seen it; think of how exciting that would be! How many people have actually witnessed the birth of a house-elf? Oh—did you see it?” she asked again.

Harry grimaced. “We saw it,” he said. “Fred passed out, so we went to…help.”

Hermione was bouncing on her chair. “Oh how exciting! Was it a boy or a girl? Fred told me that mother house-elves can choose the sex of the child; is that true? And did she name it? House-elves have such unusual names…do you think they name their own, or do wizards name them?”

“A boy,” Sirius said. “She named it herself.”

“How exciting!”

“What did she name it?” Ginny asked. Ron was still eating every kind of starch on the table and wincing occasionally when Hermione’s voice became too high. His eyes, Harry noticed, were half-lidded to block out the light and he was propping his head on one of his hands as he held his fork in the other.

“Morty,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “How odd,” she said. Harry took a bite of his breakfast, and looked up just in time to see Ginny giving him a knowing look. He turned away quickly.

“Your mother called this morning,” Sirius said to Ginny and Ron. Ron didn’t look up from his plate—as if he hadn’t heard Harry’s father speaking at all—and Sirius frowned before directing all his attention at Ginny. “She wanted to remind me that today was the first of September and to make certain that I remembered to get you to the station,” he said.

Ginny snorted. “She was probably afraid that Ron would have convinced you that it wasn’t until next week.” She looked over at Ron, expecting a sarcastic comment, and frowned when he didn’t reply. “Ron,” she said. Ron grunted and shovelled some toast and eggs in his mouth. “Ron!”

Ron winced and looked up at her. There were dark shadows under his eyes and he looked drawn. “What?” he said.

“You okay mate?” Harry asked. He knew exactly what was wrong with Ron, but he wasn’t about to say anything about it.

Ron rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Bit tired, couldn’t sleep.”

Harry nodded, noticed that Hermione had her head bent over the _Standard Book of Spells Grade Seven_ , and relaxed. She hadn’t noticed that Ron was more than a bit tired. They finished breakfast while Sirius went up to check on Ginger, and Ginny went back to finish packing. Hermione scampered off to the library as Sirius had given her permission to borrow a few books until Christmas holidays, and Harry turned back to Ron, who was slumped over his plate, head in his hands.

“Want help packing, mate?” he asked. Ron looked up at him gratefully. “Come on,” Harry said, and hoisted Ron up from the table. “Let’s stop by my room first.”

Harry had a vial of hang-over potion in his room, left over from his birthday. His father had given it to him prior to leaving for their outing, but Harry hadn’t used it. Neither of them had drunk enough to get drunk to begin with. He handed it to Ron.

“For your head,” he explained. Ron sent him a grateful look and tipped it back into his mouth, grimacing at the taste.

“How’d you know?” he asked. He was massaging his temples now, but it seemed to be working.

“I’m not stupid,” Harry said. “I’ve _seen_ you.”

Ron gave him a sheepish grin. “Thanks mate,” he said, and then he wandered over to the door, calling over his shoulder, “I’m much better now. I think I can pack by myself.”

Harry watched him leave, knowing that Ron’s head probably still hurt at least a bit, and that he didn’t want Harry helping him because he would most likely be packing up several bottles of firewhiskey in addition to his books and robes. Harry sighed, and went to see if his father had survived his visit with Ginger.

ɤɣɤ

Ron was looking a bit better by the time they were ready to leave for King’s Cross Station, which was really good form of him, Harry thought, because he had not been looking forward to the awkward questions he would get from his father if Ron were still ‘a bit tired’ by then. He did rub his eyes occasionally though.

“We’re port-keying,” Sirius said to the students as he entered the antechamber. “Straight to platform nine and three-quarters. Bypassing the barrier entirely this year.” He pulled an old beer can of his pocket and held it out to them. “Arthur sent it this morning.”

“That was nice of him,” Hermione said.

“Everyone ready then? Hermione, you got your books? Your cat?” She nodded. “Ginny—you got that puff-thing?” Ginny held Arnold up for Sirius’ viewing. “Excellent—Ron, Harry, got everything? Hedwig gone on ahead?”

Harry nodded. Sirius held the beer can out, shrugging to himself. They all put one hand on their trunks, while Sirius touched Hermione’s because she was struggling to keep Crookshanks still, and then touched a finger to the can. Harry felt the nauseating pull behind his navel, and then they were gone.

It was still only half-ten, but the platform was bustling with activity. Children were hanging out the windows, saying goodbye to their families, dragging trunks, and trying to control their animals. Harry, more than ever, did not want to go back. What was Sirius going to do without him? It was going to be fifth year all over for his father: Sirius would be all alone all year, but at least this time he would be able to leave whenever he pleased. Harry hoped he didn’t get too bored.

Ginny, Hermione and Ron had already waved and run off to load up their trunks. Harry turned to his father and hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you,” he said.

Sirius ruffled his hair, though he had to lift his hand up much higher to do it now. “You too, Kiddo. Be good.”

Harry stepped back. “What are you going to do while I’m at school?”

Sirius shrugged. “Been reading a bit about investing. I might do a bit of that.”

Harry laughed. “Well, don’t rush into anything,” he said.

Sirius laughed. “Go on then; you’ll never get a good compartment if dally.” Harry smiled, gave his father one last hug, and hurried off after the others. He found Ron and Hermione packing their trunks in one of the compartments, but Ginny had gone off to find her friends.

“We’ve got to go to the prefect meeting,” Hermione said as she finally stowed her trunk. “As Head Girl, I’ve got to go meet with the Head Boy and set up duties for the year.” Ron nodded in agreement, and then they were gone.

ɤɣɤ

Hermione came back to the compartment half an hour later, but Ron or Ginny were not with her. “Don’t you have rounds to do?” Harry asked her. He had been looking out the window and watching the scenery pass by in detached boredom. They had at least five hours left before they arrived at Hogwarts.

“No—I’m Head Girl, I don’t have to do rounds on the train, but I’m going to anyway. I think it will be good for morale, but I wanted to show you something first,” she said, sitting down.

“So who’s Head Boy then?” Harry asked as she rummaged around on the overhead rack, looking for something.

She gave him a frown over her shoulder. “Theodore Nott, if you can believe it.”

Harry could, he supposed. Nott had never much participated in anything at all; the only times Harry ever saw him were in classes or the library.

She pulled her travel bag from the overhead compartment and brought out a book. “It’s the journal you lent me,” she said. She flipped through the pages—being very careful even in her speed—and stopped on the very last one.

“I finished it just last night,” she explained, and then, as an afterthought, she cast a locking and silencing spell on the compartment door. “Harry—this is so exciting. You never finished it, did you?”

Harry shook his head. When Harry didn’t ask anything further, she couldn’t take it any longer and moved over to sit next to him, propping the book on both of their laps. “Oh Harry,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “This is a piece of history right here. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but Harry—Harry this is _one of a kind._ ”

“Okay,” Harry said. He wished she would just get to the point.

Hermione made a frustrated sound, and tapped the page. “Read it, Harry!”

Harry did.

“Merlin,” he breathed once he was finished. He looked up at Hermione, who was beaming at him. “Is this real? Are you certain it’s real?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes! I checked it this morning with every forgery spell I knew. It’s real! It was really written when the dates say it was, the handwriting has not been altered, and I did a scan on the skin that binds it, looking for a distinctive magical aura. It’s real.”

Harry grimaced. “No wonder they never heard from him again,” he said.

“Harry, this is amazing! And it was in your library all this time—do you know how much this is _worth_? It’s priceless!”

“You can keep it,” he said.

Hermione blanched. “Oh Harry, I couldn’t. The National Museum of Magical Artefacts would be much better.”

“Hmm, maybe. I’d have to ask Sirius. I just meant that I’m sure you’d want to research it more. And you’ll take good care of it until we can return it to the library.”

She grinned and tucked it back into her bag, layering dozens of cushioning and protective spells around it as she did so. She bounced up, kissed Harry lightly on the cheek, and beamed.

“Oh, thank you! I’ll take excellent care of it, but for now, I have rounds to do.” She gave him a happy little wave and slipped out of the compartment. Harry sighed, realised that he still had five hours to sit alone on the train, and leaned his head back against the seat. He could use a nap right now.

The compartment door burst open just as Harry was nodding off to sleep, and Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle walked in. Harry looked up disinterestedly—after witnessing what he had only two nights ago, he couldn’t bring himself to work up any anger over the sight of Malfoy. Malfoy was just ignorant, and Harry didn’t think it was worth wasting his anger over ignorance. He wished that he hadn’t seen—or been part of—Malfoy’s failed initiation at all; it took some of the magic away from having a rival.

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

The three Slytherins looked at him suspiciously. He’d never bothered to even pretend to be polite before. Malfoy was the first to recover. “I read in the paper that we’re second cousins now,” Malfoy said.

“If you feel the need to acknowledge it, yes,” Harry said.

Malfoy sat down across from him while his two goons guarded the door. He leaned forward, a malicious smile on his face and stared at Harry. “To be honest with you, Potty, I don’t. If anyone other than you were here, I wouldn’t have.”

Harry, again, refused to be baited. He stared at Malfoy with a bland smile, and could tell it was starting to get to the Slytherin.

“I don’t blame you,” Harry said.

Malfoy sneered. “Just because your mudblood mother turned out to not be muggle-born after all doesn’t mean she wasn’t a mudblood anyway, and doesn’t mean you’re worthy of being a pure-blood.”

“I quite agree,” Harry said. If being pure-blooded meant acting like Malfoy, he wanted no part of it.

“The Dark Lord’s been back for three years now and he’s been quiet for over half of that,” he said in a nasty whisper. “He’s planning something, you know—your mudblood friend’s not long for this world. Are you afraid, Potty?”

Harry snorted, and remembered the Death Eater meeting two nights prior. Of course Voldemort was planning something. Of course he was—the ironic thing about it, however, was that Harry knew more of it than Malfoy did. He forgot about Crabbe and Goyle guarding the door: Harry’s world had narrowed down to only him and Malfoy. He stared into Malfoy’s cold, grey eyes, took in his too-sharp face and too-pointed chin and nose, and smiled.

“Are _you_?” he asked. “You don’t know what the Dark Lord is up to, much as you might pretend otherwise. You have to come to _me_ for information.”

Malfoy faltered for only seconds before the sneer was back on his face. He stared defiantly at Harry.

“I know what’s going on, Potter,” he said. Harry had to give him credit for not looking even a bit flustered—Harry knew he’d gotten to Malfoy, even if it was just momentarily. “But the question is,” he paused, most likely for dramatic effect, “Are…you…afraid?”

Harry rolled his eyes, and turned away, to stare out the window. He couldn’t stand to look at Malfoy’s ignorant face any longer. “No, _cousin_ ,” he said, “I’m not.”

ɤɣɤ

Excerpt from the Journal of a Necromancer, 787th page.  


>   
>  __  
> 30 October, 850
> 
> _Salazar,_
> 
> _I am fully aware that I informed you that you will be returned to me tomorrow. I am also fully aware that you know how this will be accomplished. I am not fully certain if I have indeed completed my calculations correctly._
> 
> _Arithmancy is such a fickle school and such a new one at that. It is not yet as refined and concise as I might have hoped it be, and we still know so little of the stars and planets and sun to make absolutely infallible conclusions. But I babble. You have no interest in this._
> 
> _Let me say only this, then, Beloved: The spell, I am sure of. The ritual, I am sure of. The timing, I am sure of. The runes, I am sure of. Your skin, I am sure of. The numbers…I am wary of._
> 
> _I feel so certain at times, and then others I spend fretting and fretting and fretting. One mistake—one mistake, my Darling, and the entire process could be reversed—could kill me right then. But I know one thing, Beloved, and that is no matter what the outcome, we will be united—whether it be in this world or another._
> 
> _I am not afraid._
> 
> _Always,  
>  Rowena_

 

  
**End, Part I.**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments = ♥

**Author's Note:**

> FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR for snippets, what I'm working on next, and to ask me anything :) [lol-zeitgeistic on Tumblr](http://lol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
